


Volume 2: Wolves vs. Hearts - III

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Series: The Heart Rate of a Mouse [5]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: Trigger warnings for entire series:substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.





	1. Some Death Rattle at Most

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warnings for entire series:** substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.

The taxi is silent. Slight, warm rain is rolling down the windows, the wipers lazily travelling across the windshield, and I listen to the sound of my breaths while I can. Enjoy the calm before the storm. The driver says, “Hey! That’s you!”

He’s pointing through the windshield, up to the heights of Times Square buildings. I lean towards the back window and look up. My face decorates a billboard. “I don’t know. Is that me?”

“Yeah, man! You’re that –” He snaps his fingers impatiently, forehead wrinkling. “That musician, that...” He leans forwards to peer at the ad again. “Ryan Ross! You’re all over, boy!”

My paper face is gigantic and huge and enormous. It’s staring down at us from the heavens, from the side of the building, shining on the taxis and cars and pedestrians. Vicky said that if the Lennons could do it, so can we, and she did just that: my face, meet New York.

So much for no longer getting recognised.

“Imagine that! You’re in my taxi!” the man goes on to say, sounding pleased and craning his neck around to flash me a gap-toothed smile.

I let my elbow lean against the door panel, my knuckles pressing against my cheek. I unconvincingly smile back. I was enjoying the silence of this ride – the radio not on, him not singing or humming, the only music being the honking and the drumming of late spring rain. Or early summer. It’s June tomorrow. Tomorrow, only a day away.

“Yeah, I recognise you now,” the driver goes on to say, clearly having decided that our respectful silence is no longer an option. We inch along a few more car lengths, and I watch myself watching myself, a scrawl of ‘The debut album from Ryan Ross & The Whiskeys’ decorating the bottom of the advertisement, then a picture of the _Wolf’s Teeth_ cover next to my blank face. “You’ve got that song on the radio, a damn catchy tune. What’s it called, something red? What’s that song?”

“ _Crimson Gone_.”

“That one! Getting played all the time! I like your style. Not anything I’ve heard before. None of that disco crap or those fancy electro effect things, but still modern. Still very 1977, if you get my meaning.”

Well, at least we agree on one thing.

“Say.” He reaches over to the passenger seat and then tosses a newspaper to the back. “Sign that for me, will you? To Milton. Write, oh. Oh! Write, ‘To Milton – thanks for the smooth ride. Ryan Ross.’” He laughs. “Oh, write that! Ahaha!”

So I do.

“You touring soon?” he asks, suddenly a fountain of questions. I nod absently. “Any New York shows?”

“A few, yeah. Sold out already.” Based on only one song.

“Aw, that’s a shame. I like that song on the radio. You couldn’t get me any freebies, could you?”

“Don’t think so.”

“A real shame. I do like that song.” He starts humming it. We leave Times Square and my paper face behind. “Listen –”

“Look, man, I’ve got a headache, alright? Got a headache.” I look out of the window and feel his eyes on me through the rear-view mirror.

He huffs. “I see how it is.” And, quieter, “Famous cunts.”

Silence lands on us once more. I fight off the headache that changed from imaginary to real the second I said it, and I close my eyes and pretend that I’m somewhere else. I’m tired. That’s all. And it’s not my problem if they idolise me or follow me around – I need to worry about myself. Not them. Let them do whatever they want. Keep my head above the water and not drown. Make Bolin and Buckley wait a bit longer before I join their decomposing ranks.

“Well, this is a party,” Milton says as the car slows down. Masses of people are packed on both sides of the club entrance, a mix of fans and journalists. The taxi comes to a stop. “Get out of my cab.”

I inhale. Close my eyes. I hear nothing. Nothing.

“Sure thing, Milton. Thanks for the smooth ride.” I pay him and get out of the taxi with my head held low. That’s why I refused Vicky’s limo – if they saw a limousine coming, they’d be swarming around it before it was even half a block down. This way I’ve taken six steps out of the taxi and towards the door before they realise who’s arrived. Someone gasps. A splash of my shoe in a puddle, my breath and my lungs and my heart and my head, and then – A chorus of voices and yells and screams explode. Silence is a temporary art.

They come in at all sides with their cameras raised and records lifted up to the air, waving them, yelling for me to sign the Followers records and Crimson Gone singles. Anything goes.

The bouncers are thankfully on alert and push their way to my sides to help me keep walking, and I lift a hand as cameras flash and people ask me to look their way. A whole lot of Ryan! Ryan! Ryan! for nothing.

“Welcome, sir,” the other bouncer booms as he holds the club door open, and I snake inside quickly. The door closes behind me, creating a wall of muffled yelling behind me and a wall of thumping music ahead of me, echoing from the bottom of the stairs I’m gazing down at. I follow the steps leading down, and the press and fans and their soul-eating cameras get left behind. When I push open the doors at the bottom, I find myself on a landing, peering down at a dance floor with purple lights flashing from the ceiling above us. Someone spots me. The entire dance floor stops as they all spot me. They start jumping and cheering and waving.

“Ryan!” An arm around my shoulders, squeezing. Gabe. Grinning like mad. He makes a broad arch with his free hand, motioning at the club in a ‘this is our kingdom’ kind of way. “Welcome to the album release party. You’re three hours late, you fucker. Vicky’s furious, man. It’s hilarious.” He laughs. Pats my shoulder. We descend into the chaos. They’re playing our album.

After Vicky finds me and gives me a mouthful about not answering my phone (unplugged it) and not opening the door for the chauffer she sent (ignored the banging), she calms down because now the main attraction is present at his own “fucking album release party, Jesus Christ. Well, at least you look good.”

I made an effort. Going through my wardrobe and drinking heavily. I didn’t want to come because this war tactic of avoidance was working so well for me. So damn well.

The club has a seated section in one corner, and that’s where we end up receiving guests like royalty sitting on their thrones, letting people come and sit down with us for a while: dozens of friends, semi-friends and acquaintances, Rebecca, Nick, Michael, Mark, Cameron, Mel... How you been, yeah it’s been a while since I was down at that bar, I’ve been around – other bars, you know, other parties, other scenes. Busy, busy, busy. Everyone here has been invited specifically – there are no awkward fans around, but fellow artists. Supporters of the arts. Critics too, Rolling Stone, Creem and The New York Times and then some, but I leave them to the criticising. I won’t suck up to anyone.

The guests are nodding to the music. Taking it in. Some smiling. Some laughing in what looks like disbelief. I don’t care what the world thinks. Sure I don’t. It’s only my first move away from The Followers legacy, my first independent musical statement.

And, well. Almost no awkward fans are present.

Ian Crawford sits down on the couch next to me with a whoosh of messy, brown hair. “Ryan! Man! Good to see you!”

“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder and scanning the room. I wonder if he remembers that the last time he and I shared a drink, he ended up snorting god knows what in the bar bathroom and that Brendon and I then dragged him to my apartment where he passed out on the couch, but not before he half-begged me to fuck him. Not sure if Brendon ever told Ian the exact details of what he did. “Who are you with?” I ask although I know.

“I’ll never tell,” he grins drunkenly, tapping his nose before he laughs jubilantly. “God, I’ve been listening to the album, and I wanted to say, man, that _Wolf’s Teeth_ , this album, dude –”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say with an artificial smile, and he barely even notices that I’m not paying attention as he rambles on with high praise.

I wanted to make him wait. Not the other guests, just him. So that when he arrived, boyfriend in tow, my name would be on everyone’s lips. Let him wonder where I am and who with.

“– the best movie I’ve ever seen!” Ian enthuses. “The special effects! Man! Have you seen it yet?”

“What?”

“It’s called Star Wars. If you – if you haven’t seen it yet, we could go together sometime. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again. It just came out. I have never seen anything like it!” He smiles at me enthusiastically. Then his smile falters, and he adds, “They’re in space and stuff.” He blushes profusely. I stare at him in utter confusion. He goes redder. “Um. I-I’ll go get myself a drink.” He nearly stumbles trying to stand up too fast, and I watch him flee, shoulders slumped and head hung low. That kid must embarrass himself daily.

Cassie is sitting beside Jon, hand on his knee, talking to Greta and promptly ignoring me. She’s not speaking to me anymore, as a matter of fact. If she can avoid it. That’ll make touring fun: a passive-aggressive wench glaring at me at all times. Jon’s said that he’s not taking sides. Gabe said that he’s taking mine.

So I cheated on my ex-girlfriend a little and everyone in New York knows it. I can’t go blaming Keltie. She didn’t get on a soapbox to bellow it out – she’s got more class than that. Her friends, however, don’t have such class.

The reputation of a womaniser does wonders for your love life. The women get even bolder. And so do the gay kids with crushes, it seems. And was anyone surprised by what I did? No. Even Keltie always knew. Suspected it. She knew me better than anyone, and deep in her bones she also knew that I wouldn’t be faithful. She loved me, anyway.

Keltie left the significant part out when she sobbed against her friends’ shoulders. About who lured me away from our quasi-matrimonial bed. She hasn’t started any angry rumours. She could have. But she hasn’t. Probably because it hurts her too much.

It wasn’t foolish to love her.

“Hey, sit down!” Patrick pipes out. The handful of couches we’re occupying form a square, and a rectangular glass table sits in the middle, covered in full ashtrays, coke traces and empty bottles. Across the table, Brendon Boyd Urie from Anonymous Mormon Town, Utah sits down next to my drummer with a drink in his hand – Jack and Coke by the looks of it. If I had to guess. He likes Jack Daniel’s. I like Jack Daniel’s on his tongue.

What a sickening memory to have. Erase, erase. Delete. Destroy. Splotch out with correction fluid.

What lies I tell myself.

I rub my face with one hand, nodding as Jon laughs about his attempts to pack for the imminent tour, but it’s a forced laugh. Jon knows who has joined our group, and he probably wishes that he didn’t know what Brendon and I spent most of this spring doing. Jon also knows that it’s over. A drunken half-mention from me in a jazz bar one night after Keltie had gone. Wanted Jon to know but also not to know. Hoping that he’d sympathise without reading into it too much, without realising how shattered I am. Brendon’s not one of those larger than life people who’ll turn you inside out and then spit you out, leaving you dumbfounded and heartbroken. He has none of that persona. He’s just a boy, but he got me good.

“Are you okay?” Jon asks, and I rub my temples, nodding.

“Damn headache.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know. People will get it if you want to get some rest.” He looks at me with concern. “When was the last time you slept for more than three hours, anyway?”

Good question. Who knows? A lifetime ago? “I don’t know, man. The run up to the release has been insane. Last week, I think. Been all interviews and parties lately.”

His hand lands on my shoulder, and he squeezes it fraternally. “You need to go home and sleep.”

Leave my own album release party? After days of dreading it, knowing he’d be here as all of the film crew was invited for a good night out? Then procrastinating, putting on clothes that I know he likes, and now that he’s here, after weeks of having been able to avoid him, leave?

Yeah. Yeah, I need to get the fuck out of here.

“I will. I’ll leave now.”

I stand up, not caring if it looks suspicious that I get up to leave when Brendon sits down. I’ll go home and sleep, that sounds like a plan, but oh, Eric’s here, that’s nice, haven’t seen him in a while, so I sit back down, and an hour later I’m still at the club, now by the bar talking to Eric, good old Eric, and he’s saying that he ought to hate me because I stole Shane from him, was a good employee, apparently, didn’t have the wits to ask for a raise at any point whereas these new kids, well _god_ , and I get drunker by the minute as the girls that are lingering around laugh at Eric’s jokes.

Shane came over to say hi. He looked one tenth as tired as I feel, and we haven’t even started the tour yet. Shane’s exhausted but excited. I can’t stand the sight of him.

One of the skirts that Eric’s taken a liking to tags along as we reclaim our seats, just in time to see Jon taking Cassie for a few spins on the floor, and everyone’s patting my shoulder and saying hi and telling me that they’ll come and see us play and that the new album’s amazing, and I feel – artificially loved. And important. None of these people would be here if it weren’t for me. I’m the centre of their attention. And yet, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it.

“Hey.”

I look up from my drink. Eric’s no longer sitting next to me. He and the girl are gone. Brendon’s looking towards the dance floor, and oh, there they are. So is Vicky, dancing with Jon as Patrick tries out his moves with Cassie. Everyone having a good time.

What do you say to your former lover? Hi? Hey there? Thanks for nothing, you heartless bastard? Or maybe ‘what do you think of the album?’ Fuck the critics – what did he think?

I go for none of the above and relish the fact that he’s come over to talk to me. It counts as a victory. I still ask, “Do you really want to be seen talking to me?” I focus my eyes on my friends and acquaintances. Not him. Not trying to figure out if I can feel his body heat against my side, or if my skin there has just gotten aware all of a sudden from his close proximity. I could lean my knee to the left a little. Make our legs touch.

“More suspicious that we never talk anymore. Shane thought we were becoming good friends at one point, when he saw us talking a lot.”

“Oh, we were the best of friends. Could hardly leave the bed.” I take a sip of my vodka, can feel the irritation coming off of him. “What? Was that offensive?”

“You don’t have to be so fucking crude about it,” he says, sounding perhaps a little hurt.

“I’m just not embellishing the truth.” A sharp pain radiates from the left side of my chest, but I ignore it. The first thing I do is pick a fight with him. Of course that’s what I do. Help him add things to the list of why he didn’t choose me. “So did you want something?”

I make the mistake of looking at him. His soft brown eyes, the way they sparkle when he smiles. The curve of his nose, and the way it presses to my spine when he kisses my back, going down, further. The fullness of his lips, pink and soft and tasting like home.

He’s smoking, and he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and I envy it, the fucking cigarette. His lips purse around it, his cheeks hollow. I try not to think of him sucking my cock. I fail. I keep telling myself that the distance will do me good. Will help me forget.

So much for that theory.

“I tried to get out of coming on tour. I just wanted you to know that.” His left knee keeps bouncing. Nervous. On edge. “But Shane said that I can’t quit the project out of the blue, that I’ll fuck up his work if I do. He’s pretty stressed. He needs me there, you know? So I have no choice, but I did try. That’s all I wanted to say.”

That’s nice. That’s barely nice. A good blow to my ego first off. Thanks.

“You and me on tour… Well. Imagine that.” I take another slug of the vodka. It’s got mixer in it, some Coke to add colour to keep up appearances. I gather the residue off my lower lip with my tongue.

He was looking. He clears his throat. Was he looking? “Doubt we’ll even see much of each other,” he states. He’s not saying anything about the music. Not asking how I’ve been. They’re not playing the album anymore – instead Jon Anderson’s vocals are blazing through. The English always did it well, but I did it better.

“So what did you make of the album?” I ask, submitting that much.

He shrugs. “Sounded good. I mean it _is_ good, but you know that, anyway.”

“Right.” That’s all I’ll get out of him, and I know it. He clearly thought nothing of what I sang. Some death rattle at most. “So are you travelling with the commoners or in the VIP class?” I ask, referring to the sharp separation between the band and everyone else – all the roadies, merch people, techs and majority of the film crew travel by bus. The important people just go from airplane to limo to hotel to limo to venue to stage to limo to hotel to limo to plane. And I know that Shane, as the head of the film crew, will be travelling with the band. And Shane’s loyal, long-term boyfriend?

“I’m travelling with you guys,” Brendon admits. And yeah. I figured as much. We can’t exactly ignore each other in a confined space, can we?

“Well. We might even make it to Europe this time,” I say slowly. “Get you off this goddamn continent. Always did wonder what you’d be like in France. Or Germany. Or Spain. If it would make you fuck different somehow.” I finish my drink and place the glass on the floor between us. I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me with hurt on his face. “I guess I’ll ask Shane for updates,” I say with a sweet smile, standing up rather gracefully, the alcohol intake considered. “Oh, and by the way,” I straighten the suit jacket that he likes, “haven’t seen you and lover boy exchange a single word to each other tonight. How _are_ things in monogamy heaven?”

His eyes flash dangerously. “You know, we could be civil to one another. You could be _civil_.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Christ, just –”

“‘Piss off’, yeah, yeah, I know. Watch me do a trick. You watching? See. I’m going… I’m going… I’m gone.”

I walk into the crowd without looking back, offering my arm to the first girl rushing towards me, and she laughs brightly and accepts it, enthralled, and, well.

You have to do these things with style.

* * *

None of the lights are on in my apartment. I walk through the rooms like a ghost, haunting the poor thing. Pouring myself a drink.

I left the girl with Gabe. Never had any intention to do more than piss off Brendon with her help. It’s all about appearances. I don’t miss him. Let him not think for one conceited second that I miss him. Hurt, well, I’ll let him think that I’m hurt because it’s true. But it was a mutual decision, wasn’t it? He said no. And I said no. Almost at the same time. Practically simultaneously.

No.

No.

As simple as that.

I linger by the living room window, staring down into the street where a few lost souls are prowling. I think one of them might be one of those crazy friars from down the street. They have their God. They have someone to go home to.

I was meant to, too. This apartment was meant to finally become a home. I wanted Keltie here. So many things were meant to be different. She was supposed to put me back together piece by piece. Nurture me back to health. But instead I am left to my own devices and, well. I squeeze my fist. Feel the painkillers locked inside. Well, well. That’s just a fucking stupid move on everyone’s part, isn’t it?

I packed for the first few shows yesterday and I found a shirt of Keltie’s. It still smelled like her. The memories of her are fading. I don’t want to forget, but her face is getting blurred.

I’m sorry.

It’s too easy to pretend that I’m turning love into hate. Too damn easy. And Brendon didn’t fume in jealousy when I walked off with some girl. I’m just wasting my time trying to hurt him like an attention sick child.

He talked to me. So fucking glad he talked to me.

So pathetic.

Stay away, stay away, stay –

I knock the pills down with the vodka.

“There you are,” a soft male voice comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder. Oh. I forgot.

“You’re still here,” I observe. The shadows fall on the guy’s naked form, and he stands alluringly by the couch, a seductive smile on his lips. I gaze around the room, make sure things are still in place. “Haven’t stolen anything, I hope.”

He scoffs. “Honey, I don’t give a shit about this crap.” He’s got a lisp. He’s that type: an effeminate fag. He reminded me of Keltie when I first saw him last night, they somehow move in that same, feminine way. Like dancers. “I’ve been sleeping since you, uh. Wore me out. But I’m ready for more if you are.”

I assess the situation. Think of the way he groans. He’s not so feminine then. Full on male, musky and masculine. Reminding me of someone else instead. In my bed. In my big goddamn bed that I have all to myself.

I set the drink on the windowsill and unzip my fly. “Get on your knees, then.”

He walks over, the light hitting his face – forgotten his name, but he’s beautiful in that utterly insignificant way – and he smiles. “My pleasure, sir.” He drops down onto his knees. My hands settle in his short, brown hair, almost the exact colour I wanted.

“You’ll do,” I say, voice hoarse.

He’ll do. For tonight.

* * *

Roll an imaginary wedding band around my finger. Glad we made it this far, baby. Sure’s been worth it. Sure it has.

The private jet isn’t _ours_ ours, but it is ours for now. It seats ten passengers: five on each side of the aisle. The pilot and co-pilot shook our hands at the airport and said how excited they were to have been hired, and they then tried to engage me in conversation about the Longthorn model we’ll be flying on this tour, but Vicky was quick to lead them to the side and let them in on the ‘Don’t disturb Mr. Ross’ rule.

Now we’re about to start landing in Baltimore. It’s been a short flight of less than two hours. A car will be waiting for us. Take us straight to the arena. The gear will be all set up for us – the crew got there this morning. We did a few crew practices last week. The kids should know the drill, and we should have the songs figured out for live performances. Now tour passes hang around our necks like collars on dogs, ‘All Access’ and ‘Diamonds and Pearls tour 1977’ written on them. I hide mine beneath my shirt, but Vicky says I hardly need one. People will know who I am, anyway.

It’s a whole new different type of tour this time. No more playing poker with the roadies. I’ll consider myself a humanitarian if I even learn the roadies’ names or set foot on their bus.

The album went straight to number two. Vicky said that we’ll be number one next week.

Greta is sitting in front of me, hanging across the aisle as she incessantly talks to her boyfriend, Butcher, who’s already informed us all seven times that he has never flown before, and he seems extremely excited about now getting to experience it. I’ve always liked Butcher, the little I’ve seen of him. A hippie dreamer like Greta is.

In front of the flower power couple are Jon and Cassie. Why Cassie has to tag along when we’ll be back in New York in a few nights anyway is beyond me, but I guess that Jon just wants her here. Our first ever live show is tonight. It’s a big event for all of us. Gabe and Vicky are bickering behind me, Patrick sits across the aisle from me, buzzing with nerves, the poor fool, and nearest to the cockpit are Brendon and Shane. Brendon, from what I can see, is reading a book in silence. He’s the only one not trying to talk over everyone else, or, well – Brendon and I are the only ones keeping quiet.

Everyone else is excited.

“I’m so glad there’s another couple on tour with us,” Greta says, clutching Butcher’s hand and staring at Cassie. “It’s good to see others’ love, don’t you think? It strengthens your own.”

Behind me, Gabe says, “No, _Victoria_ , South America is not just one big jungle. We _do_ have cities, you know. And juntas. Lots of juntas.”

“We’re mostly couples!” Cassie laughs good-naturedly, and Greta glances towards the back where Vicky and Gabe are arguing.

“Cassie, honey, they’re not...” Greta says with a sympathetic smile that it’s truly sad if that’s what Cassie defines as love.

“No, no, I mean Brendon and Shane!” Cassie elaborates, causing Shane to pause his conversation with Jon and look enquiringly at Cassie. Brendon’s picked out his name too, looking over his shoulder questioningly.

Greta’s expression brightens up. I thought she knew. Well, she isn’t the most observant person, truth be told. She’s too preoccupied with her fairytale thoughts to take much notice of anything else. “That’s lovely!” she chirps, and I focus on looking out of the window, at the ground below us that’s gradually coming closer as we lose altitude. Cities beyond cities beyond cities. Let everyone be told, then. That he’s not mine. “You’re homosexuals! I had no idea! Congratulations!”

I muffle an involuntary burst of laughter. Only Greta would walk around congratulating people on their sexual orientations. I wonder what I’d get if I told her. A huge party, perhaps? A present of some kind? A song titled ‘Ryan Likes Boys Too and I Think It’s Swell’?

The silence tells me that the fag couple are trying to grasp Greta’s well wishes, but she just goes on with, “How long have you been together?”

“Um.” A hesitant voice. Shane is scratching the side of his neck. “Two years and... four months now?” He looks to Brendon for validation.

“Something like that,” Brendon agrees, nodding.

Greta’s completely enthralled and misses their obvious discomfort. I’m equally enthralled. Monogamy heaven, take two. “How did you meet? Butcher here found me.” She nods towards her boyfriend lovingly, and Butcher flashes a proud smile at everyone, a ‘damn right I did!’

Brendon sees me looking. “Well, uh.” He drops his gaze. “I was working in a bar in the Castro District in San Francisco, and Shane came in one night, and we hit it off, and well. Here we are.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Shane laughs.

“Roughly it did.”

“Not really.”

“ _Vaguely_ ,” Brendon says impatiently.

“I chased you for weeks. _Weeks_. I was hanging around the bar like a lovesick puppy while you just gave me the brush off.” Greta giggles appreciatively, and Brendon looks anything but pleased. “William had to give me pointers after a grand speech that I could piss off if my intentions weren’t noble.”

“So what happened?” Butcher now asks eagerly.

Shane looks over, having been staring at Brendon in slight annoyance. We’re all looking their way, and he seems surprised, like he’s not sure what to say.

“He wore me down, didn’t he?” Brendon jokes, flashing a smile at us and reaching out to clutch Shane’s hand. “And it’s been strong and steady since.”

Greta awws, being the romantic she is. Shane’s shoulders are tense, but he smiles at Brendon. The lovesick fool. Brendon pulls his hand back when the others are focused on Butcher’s tale of how he met Greta, and Brendon goes back to his book. Shane picks up a conversation with Jon.

Fuck them and their relationship problems and their desire to work on those problems. If Brendon chose that over me, then clearly what I had to offer was a lousy deal in his eyes. _I_ was spoiled goods. And now I have to sit here, watching them trying to act like the dream couple they once were.

Like I never had a claim on him at all. Like I didn’t matter, and if I did, he’s busy pretending that I didn’t, and that’s – well that’s just fine. If it’s that easy for him to pretend that it was really nothing.

Greta starts singing as we lose altitude, and Gabe joins in happily, and when we land in Baltimore, most of the guys are singing, “You started this fire down in my soul, now can’t you see it burning out of control,” doing disco dance moves with their hands and all of it, cackling hysterically as they take the piss out of the music we’re opposing.

The plane bounces and slows down, and the guys cheer and laugh and clap. “Oh, there are limos waiting for us!” Greta says giddily, peering out of her window. “Some press too! I feel so important!”

Brendon reads his book, and I focus on being angry or bitter or anything other than sad. Because that’s the worst part. When I’m just sad.  
  


* * *

I settle on being bitter. It feels like the best option, all things considered, and thanks to it, our first show goes well. I think. If I cared enough, I’d even be pleased.

I’ve never been the type to be excited about walking on stage, but actually doing it is not at all as repulsive as I recall it as having been. I just don’t give a flying fuck what they think anymore. The crowd’s wild – not the reaction I was expecting after Greta’s supporting set. Her music is mellow, likely to make you cry, not riot. But it’s a different kind of wild from The Followers days when underwear would get thrown at us and there’d be hysterical sobbing and deafening screaming. Now we get enthusiastic applause and cheering. It sounds like appreciation. That’s nice. Thanks. Three fucking years too late, but that’s sweet.

I’m the last to get on stage. No horror, no stage fright. I see Patrick behind the drum kit, looking damn excited, Gabe’s on my left grinning wolfishly, and Jon on my right looks like he is back to where he belongs.

And thousands of people are taking us in with their beady eyes. The arena cheers enthusiastically: the people on the floor, standing in masses and masses, then at the sides where there’s seating, rising up row after row, and curving to the back of the arena where the seats meet somewhere in the darkness. Not too small or too big – eleven, twelve thousand people. The Followers pulled crowds like this before we died.

“I’m Ryan Ross, and these are The Whiskeys. This is our first ever show. Thanks for coming out,” I say into the microphone simply. None of Joe’s obnoxious ‘How you doing, Baltimore?!’s. They cheer even more.

It almost feels like cheating, starting from the top, but at least I got something out of The Followers. At least I got something from that fucking mess, and it doesn’t feel weird to be back on stage but without Spencer behind me. That when I look back, I see Patrick with his glasses and a hat on, not Spencer with his bandanna and vest and friendly smile. Don’t miss those days. At all.

“A one, a two, a one two three four,” Jon says, and we kick into our first song. The music fills the arena, and it’s stupid, I think. All these people paying to hear us live.

From the sidelines, Vicky watches intently. Shane’s got his whole film crew there too, the lenses zooming in and out and focusing on different people. They’ve been filming us all night – first show jitters. They wanted to interview me too, but I dodged the bullet and let Patrick do it instead. I know I owe the documentary crew at least one in depth interview, but they’ll have to catch me first. Oh, the suckers will have to try.

Greta and Butcher are looking on, swaying, Greta singing along. She’ll come on soon to do backup vocals the way she does on the album. And Cassie’s smiling, well that’s fucking rare, and we do _Rampant_ , _Royal Blood_ and _Piccadilly_ in a flash. We’ve got thirteen songs on the album, and I’ll play twelve of them, so we’ve made extended versions of the shorter songs to make sure no one feels cheated by the set not lasting long enough.

Greta soon comes on, and we do two of the three songs she sings on. The crowd seems besotted with her, and I told you, didn’t I – I said that I’ll make a star out of you. Her album’s coming out at the end of summer. She’ll shine so brightly.

I ignore the fact that Brendon is watching us play when Greta and I sing _Bruises_. I busy myself detaching the lyrics from their context as much as I can until it’s just something I sing, something about the taste of cigarettes in a guilt-ridden kiss. And when I switch guitars after the song, the audience cheering after having sung along to _every_ word and the album’s only been out for a damn week, I look to the side again and Brendon is smoking, now standing slightly away from the other on-lookers. He seems unnerved. I don’t care.

After we’re done with _Paradox_ , turning it from a four-minute song to a seven-minute epic during which Jon does an amazing guitar solo that’s mostly improvised, Brendon seems to have taken off. I try not to think about it for the rest of the show, but he’s nowhere to be seen when we walk off for the encore break. Vicky is beaming that we’re playing fucking _well_ , and Patrick is shivering from adrenalin. Brendon’s nowhere to be seen at all. Coward. Stupid coward. God, I hope he’s alright.

We do _Five Close Calls_ and then, of course, _Crimson Gone_ because it’s on the radio, and it’s the song that gets the biggest reaction. Someone yells, “Play _Alienation_!” right before we do the last song, and I count it as a victory that we’re about to wrap it up when I hear someone demand a Followers song for the first time. Do us a favour and shoot yourself in the head, Followers loving asshole, you’ve got the wrong fucking band.

The asshole fan included, then, it goes well. It goes really well. The audience loved it. I’m not smiling, but I could smile were I so inclined. I’ve got a good band. At least something’s going as it should.

We walk straight off stage, getting led into long corridors by venue coordinators, down a flight of stairs, left, down the corridor, right, through double doors, up a flight of stairs, hurried steps, and soon we vanish into the limo that is waiting for us. No sticking around, no packing up the gear. Not for the band. Not for Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys.

The people that have managed to exit the arena are singing _Crimson_ amongst themselves as we slide past in the car, protected by the tinted windows. Jon laughs brightly, an arm around Cassie’s shoulders. She isn’t objecting to his sweaty embrace. “That was magical, right?” Jon asks enthusiastically. The band and Cassie agree, the four of them buzzing the same kind of energy.

My family’s happy tonight. Well, good that someone is. I can feel that much through this muddled cloud of ugly, ugly love that I don’t want anymore. Not tonight and tomorrow.

Our luggage is waiting for us at the hotel, and we kick back in the lavish suite that Gabe and Patrick share. We start drinking. It doesn’t take too long for our numbers to multiply by three or four as whoever we know in Baltimore that gets our okay finds their way to the hotel. We don’t see the road crew or any of the lowly documentary crew – they’re all on the bus to Philly with the gear. Good riddance. See you tomorrow. Only those who travel on the plane are staying the night, and Vicky, Shane and Brendon appear eventually, everything having been sorted out at the venue.

Brendon takes one look at me and quickly disappears into the crowded room with that same nervous edge he had when I saw him during the show. I don’t go investigate – he wouldn’t tell me, anyway. I simply focus on getting drunk off my face because that’s what this occasion requires. I stop in the bathroom to pop codeine pills down my throat. It’s midnight now, and I know what day it is, I know, I _know_ , and I don’t want to deal with it. Not tonight. You’re asking too much of me.

Shane comes to congratulate me on a great opening night. I know that he and Brendon are sharing a hotel room. Of course they are, only makes sense, but I’m not sure if Vicky’s gotten them one or two beds. I could’ve told her to make sure they have their own beds, but then she’d say some kind of uncomfortable truth that I wouldn’t want to deal with. Maybe she got them two. Vicky’s smart. She wouldn’t want to start rumours of us harbouring fags in our ranks.

But the number of beds doesn’t matter because they can push the beds together or use just one of them. Love finds a way. It always does.

Brendon’s talking to Cassie and Jon, and they seem to be enjoying each other’s company, Brendon talking animatedly. Too animatedly, a slight giveaway that he’s holding something back. They can’t see it. I can. He still laughs, and it occurs to me how rarely I see that anymore. I swear he used to laugh more.

Cry, cry, baby.

I need a bottle of something strong.

Patrick’s off his face – an introduction to tour life – and someone says that the hotel bar on the second floor has a piano, so a bunch of us grab our bottles and pill and powder bags and head down to investigate. The good kids – Jon, Greta, Cassie et cetera – get left behind. Even Vicky’s drunk as she tags along. Wow. She really must have thought the show went well.

We get an assistant manager to open the door for us, and they’re giggling like fools, the dozen or so of us, and I don’t know anyone’s names but it hardly matters. Someone starts playing Queen songs on the piano, and I laugh under my breath when the guy playing starts bellowing out, “You suck my blood like a leech,” angry and bitter, just the way the song should be sung, just the way all songs should be sung. I’m not nearly as wasted as I’d like.

“You know what they say about this guy,” the guy sharing my table says confidentially. “Freddie Mercury. You know what they say.”

“No. What do they say?”

“That he’s a fag. Yeah. I _know_. And people still listen to them. Can you believe that?”

“No, man. Really can’t. Sickening shit, right?”

“Revolting.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Fuck off, you cunt,” I hiss, get up and wander off in search of better company. I think like Catullus: I will sodomise you and stuff your gob with my cock. And I don’t know if it’s the drugs or – No, can’t be – The booze, maybe? The combination? Lack of sleep? Whatever it is, the room suddenly spins in a weird way, and I come to a stop. Everything blacks out momentarily. I try to shake it off.

“Ryan. You okay, man?” someone says, hands on my shoulders.

“Piss off,” I mutter, trying to push them off.

“Is he –”

“No, I don’t think – Can someone get his manager?”

“Vicky.”

“Yeah, Vicky! Anybody seen –”

“I’ve got this. Just leave it to me.” A body presses to my side, an arm securing itself around my waist to support me. “Come on, Ry. Come on now.”

“I can fucking walk,” I object, but let myself be led away anyway.

Suddenly the room’s no longer full of the dark wooden furniture of the bar, and the banging of the piano sounds distant. The walls are white instead. The tiles too. A kitchen. A glass of water is pressed into my hand, and I clutch a counter with my other as I gulp down the water, the sudden dizzy spell evaporating, the cool water soothing my throat. Reality comes whooshing back in an unpleasant way, everything becoming more focused. I don’t know what happened.

Brendon’s staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks kind of pissed off.

“What?” I prompt. I finish the glass, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. Try to get air in.

“Nothing. I get it: first night of tour. You deserve to have a good time.” He couldn’t sound more sarcastic if he tried. Yeah, what is he? My keeper?

“Look, I’ve hardly taken anything,” I tell him angrily before he can even start. Let’s rewind to him snorting god knows what during The Followers days.

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

“Even if I snorted all the fucking coke in this hotel, I don’t need you to look after me!” I snarl, my guts throbbing with nausea. Not today. I can’t deal with this today, wondering if it means something, that he worries or gets pissed off.

He left me. He left me, and she left me, and nobody wanted me in the end. And today. Today.

I rub my face and try to fight off the memories crashing on me like a tidal wave.

“It’s the first night of tour,” he says again. “And look at what a mess you are already. I just thought you had figured out moderation by now.”

“I’ve hardly taken anything,” I repeat, and it’s true. But they add up over days and days, all the chemicals and never sleeping anymore. I’ve never had dizzy spells before. In front of everyone too. Fuck.

I take him in, standing in the hotel bar’s kitchen with me. Think of him smoking nervously during our show. I might eye-fuck him – accidentally, of course – because he becomes agitated, a faint blush emerging on his cheeks. I think of him beneath me, staring up at me with blown pupils, his hair a mess and cheeks flushed. Those breathless, vulnerable gasps when I’ve got him good. I miss you. I miss you, I miss you. God, fuck off.

“I’d just hate to think it’s anything to do with me,” he says at long last, drawing out every syllable like it’s taking a lot of effort to say it.

“What?”

He shrugs slightly and avoids eye contact. “I don’t know. I just – Some of the songs on the album... just resonate.”

I almost laugh. So is that why he’s doing his best to avoid me? Because the songs hit too close to home? He never wanted to know. When I tried to tell him, he made it more than obvious that he didn’t want to know anything. Well, he doesn’t have the right to resent me for those songs. I can sing whatever I want. Even the truth that he had no interest in.

“You think I’m being self-destructive because of you, and now you feel guilty. Huh. I did wonder why the fuck you’d even care if I passed out at the bar. Should’ve known it’s about your conscience.” I scoff and try to fight off the anger.

“Silly of me to assume something like that. You’re right. It’s just you taking artistic liberties, lyrical exaggeration and –”

“I mean everything that I sing,” I cut him off, and an awkward silence lands on us. That’s not what he wanted to hear.  
  
“Do you really?” he asks quietly. “Because you say things in those songs you _never_ said to me, not even when we were –”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“So what difference does it make?” I ask, hanging my head. What makes him think the songs are about him, anyway? The small references only the two of us could ever get? I didn’t mean it to be a bunch of whiny letters to him, although that’s what he’s taken it as. No. No, it’s about purifying my soul, just getting my secrets out of my system. Not about him. It’s about a public confessional, a recantation of what I thought I had. “It’s the first night on tour, and maybe – maybe I’m in a bit of a mess tonight, sure. But I deserve to be. And not because we’re on tour or because of the things I sing. We just – God.” I pause to take in a breath. “We met. Three years ago today. And it’s not something I feel like celebrating or remembering.”

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. I know. Tenth of June, 1974. First day of tour. I remember wanting to smash Pete’s face in and renounce music altogether just to avoid having to deal with my band. Now it’s the tenth of June, 1977, first night of tour. So much has changed. So little has changed. It’s important to remember significant dates. Keltie taught me that too.

I remember that day. He was wearing this... this t-shirt that only came down to his belly button. He was reading Hemingway and doing drugs and drinking too much and sleeping around, and he was stubborn and young and fierce, god, he was so fucking _beautiful_ , and he never took any bullshit from me. Never. The only one who…

He looks confused. What have I got to hide, anyway? Feign indifference when even hearing me sing songs about us makes him too uncomfortable to watch the band perform? He knows how I feel. I’m shoving it in his face on a nightly basis now, and my feelings. My heart and what it contains. All of that is even more obvious when I try to mistreat him.

“I didn’t.” He pauses and looks… “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“What?”

He slowly uncrosses his arms. “Our anniversary.” His voice is faint.

I stare. He remembered. He knew. He knows.

The urge to suddenly take a step closer and kiss him is overwhelming. Three years. Three years, and I’m not even allowed to kiss him. Three years, and I know that if I tried to kiss him, he’d shoot me down. He’s happy with Shane. So obviously happy. Sure. With the forced smiles and barely talking, and still it’s better than what I offered.

He clears his throat. Looks uncomfortable. “Look, I - I gotta head back out. Drink some more water, will you?”

“No. No, we’re _talking_ about this!” I say angrily, stepping up to him quickly, which proves to be a mistake. The world just _tilts_ , swinging around its axis, and I need to close my eyes to steady myself. I shake it off, and he’s still here, looking concerned but no longer intervening.

“You should sit down,” he says.

“No.” I study his face, the slight alarm in his eyes. He knew what day it is. He’s always known. Been counting the years, maybe the months.

“Ryan, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not. You just wish I was.” He counts the years and helps me when I overdo the recreational poisons. That must be love. In our world, in this little bubble world, that must be enough to call it love. “I know what it means because it means the same to me, it means –”

The door to the kitchen opens. Gabe walks in with a smile, but then stops abruptly when he sees that I’m with Brendon.

“Oh. Sorry for –”

“Gabe, can you see to it that Ryan gets to bed?” Brendon asks, backing away from me like from a ticking time bomb.

“Um –”

“You’re not getting away that easily! Can’t we just fucking _talk_ about this?!” I demand, feeling desperate. If he only stayed. If only. I swear he’d see things my way soon enough. “Goddammit, you don’t get to walk out on me on our fucking anniversary!” I hiss angrily, and Brendon reacts instantly, saying, “I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. You think Gabe doesn’t know?” I laugh. Brendon stares at me in horror. “What? You don’t think we’ve been obvious most of the time?”

Brendon’s mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He looks furious. Scared. Gabe looks like he feels out of place – must be a first.

“Thanks for that, Ryan,” Brendon says through gritted teeth. He rushes out with a muttered swearword, the door swinging behind him. I laugh to myself, trying to keep the world upright as all the energy I spent trying to convince Brendon that I was feeling alright has now drained, and the world looks wonky again.

Gabe’s arm is around my shoulders, holding me to him firmly. “Estás en problemas, hermano,” he tells me, shaking his head and sighing. “Let’s get you to bed, man. Come on.”

Am I in trouble? Why on earth would I be in trouble? It’s just the truth. That’s all. And I for one, most certainly for one, think it’s about time other people started telling the truth too.


	2. Some Death Rattle at Most

Nothing and no one wakes me up.

A pillow lies under my head, another is lying length-wise next to me, like I’ve pulled it closer in my sleep. I used to sleep alone just fine.

The walls of my bedroom are the same beige colour they’ve been since the place got refurbished. Keltie chose the colour, made a big fuss over beige and cream and what I preferred. I didn’t care.

It’s quiet in my room. No pretty brown-eyed girls or boys anywhere.

The peace sometime in the morning, maybe closer to ten, is soothing. Feels like I managed to sleep for a few hours after all. Soon I have to head over to Madison Square Garden for our second New York show, but before that I should check the morning papers, see if they concur with the reviewers for the Baltimore and Philly shows: that I’m still an elusive know-it-all on stage and off it, but for some reason they can’t stop watching, and neither can anyone else. Oh, and the music’s not bad either.

I shave in the bathroom, accompanied by a leaking tap. Drip. Drip. Drip. My eyes dart to look at the shower curtain reflected in the mirror, but no one’s behind it, whistling or humming or filling the gaps with morning kisses. I get dressed, sitting on the edge of my bed to tie the laces of my black platform shoes. My tour suitcase remains packed because we’ll be off soon enough, heading to Chicago next, I think.

Find cereal and milk in the kitchen. The milk hasn’t gone bad yet. I lean against the counter and munch on the food, fully dressed and with a clean shaven chin. Can hear the crunch of the cereal. Crunch, crunch.

It’s hot as hell in New York City. Black clouds are decorating the sky.

I feel restless. I know that the phone will start ringing soon, and if I don’t answer, Vicky will be coming down to personally drag me out to do whatever she needs me to be doing. Fulfil other people’s expectations of me.

The shows aren’t bad. I’ve got them figured out, even when faced with twenty thousand people.

I scratch my nose. Feel more detached from humanity than I ever have felt.

Got a call from Nevada yesterday, from the hospital. Some infection. A turn for the worse. I don’t have the time to wonder why I can’t even bring myself to pretend to be affected by his slow way of dying. He’d do it quick if he had any decency.

I don’t have the time to feel, period.

My fingers accidentally catch the chain around my neck. Yeah, he’s still not talking to me. Is still mad. I tried talking to him in Philadelphia again and again, but it’s difficult when someone else is always around and no privacy is to be had. He tagged behind long enough on the walk from the limo to the jet to ask me who else I’ve told. No one, I said. I swore. No one, no one at all, I lied. I don’t think he bought it, just shot a dirty glance at me.

I don’t have the time to feel the full impact of his wrath. Sometimes I even forget, for a second or two. But then I see him, and his disgust of me penetrates every cell of my body and makes it harder to breathe.

I remain by the kitchen window, eyeing the bruise coloured clouds that lick the tops of the tallest buildings. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The apartment is vast and empty. A quiet, lonely kingdom all to myself where the only sound is that of me breathing.

* * *

Patrick and I get shoved back and forth. The mix of fans and press pushes forward, the venue workers struggling to keep them back. The camera flashes blind me, and I try to cover my eyes and just keep swimming upstream. The pushing feels like an invasion of privacy, of decency. The shouting irritates my ear drums, the commotion bouncing around in my head. Someone grabs my arm, and I have to tear myself free. Lightning erupts from the darkening evening sky, the air pregnant with imminent rain.

We manage to get to the side door, and after a short but brutal struggle, we get inside and the door closes behind us. The security men are panting.

Patrick looks around. “Fuck, I lost my hat.”

“Buy a new one,” I offer.

Thomas, a guy who works for Madison Square Garden and is responsible for ensuring our pleasurable stay, laughs. He guides us through the canteen and to our dressing room while the security men follow us loyally, like dogs, like Argos, living only for the thought of us. I spot a few of our roadies but don’t say hello. I’m too important to have the time, returning from a string of interviews in time for the show. One of Shane’s men spots us and hurries to follow us with a camera on his shoulder. Shane’s said that following us around will create a good sense of the constant movement and chaos behind the scenes or something along the lines.

When we get to the spacious dressing room, the security men taking position outside the doors, a loud chorus of voices greets us. Everyone’s present, including some of Shane’s crew, who’ve thankfully put their cameras away. Pre-show drinks are going around, and it’s become a habit for us just to chill out and have a few beers before going on stage. Loud bursts of laughter erupt, the guys amused by whatever they’re talking about. Thomas helps himself to a beer as Shane’s guy puts the camera away. I find a seat by the dressing table, grabbing a beer bottle and note that Brendon isn’t present. Greta’s about to start her set any second, and so neither she nor Butcher is to be found.

“That is a myth,” Jon says, slouched on the couch lazily. Cassie looks slightly disgusted by whatever they’re talking about. Keltie’s not in New York this week but out of town somewhere. I’m not sure if it’s on purpose, but I’m glad we’re missing each other, not having to wonder if she’ll come see us out of curiosity or anger.

“It’s not, man! I swear, this guy _told_ me it happens,” Gabe insists enthusiastically.

“Spontaneous orgasms? That you’re walking down the street and just get off?” Jon says sceptically.

“Coming in your pants,” Patrick snickers appreciatively, and the guys laugh.

“No, that’s not what I said. Not spontaneous or without, uh, stimulation. I only said that apparently _some_ men can come without getting their dicks touched.”

“Bullshit. Come _on_ , that is bullshit,” Jon deadpans. When Gabe is about to object, Jon says, “Think about it. Have _you_ ever gotten off without getting your dick touched?”

“Well, no but –”

“So there ya go.”

“Cassie, help me out! We only know how our own dicks work,” Gabe reasons, which is such a lie but he covers up his bisexuality very well. Apart from me, none of our friends know.

Cassie chuckles, even if she clearly thinks that this is an obscene conversation only men would ever have. “I wouldn’t know much about other guys’ dicks.”

“Much?” Jon asks with a raised eyebrow her way, and she rolls her eyes. Oh. Oh, cute. That’s what’s missing in that picture: clearly they were virgins when they first got together. How darling. The only two suckers in the twentieth century who are pleased riding just one horse.

“We need to ask groupies,” Gabe says, dismissing Cassie as a potential witness to these supposed ejaculations he’s focusing his energies on.

The door to the dressing room opens, and Brendon wanders in. “Bren! Just the man I wanted to see!” Gabe says, grinning broadly. Gabe’s seemed pleased in some weird way that Brendon now knows that I’ve confided in him about our affair. I might be losing sleep over Brendon’s anger, but Gabe certainly isn’t. “Can you _please_ verify for these non-believers that men really can get off without getting their dicks touched?”

Brendon stops. “Um...”

“So you’re saying,” Jon interrupts with a laugh, “that some men can get off by, I don’t know, kissing chicks?”

“Not kissing. Broaden your horizons a little there, Jonny. I’m asking Brendon for a _reason_ ,” Gabe says. Jon’s eyebrows lift to his hairline, the way they would with any straight man suddenly asked to fill their head with visuals of gay sex. Brendon looks more than uncomfortable as the guys look at him, waiting for an answer. Gabe is enjoying this. Brendon spots me, but I haven’t said a word to Gabe. I would never go into detail.

Brendon’s cheeks look red, but it’s not just embarrassment – it’s anger aimed at me. But I don’t want the entire room thinking of him in that situation. Don’t want them to sexualise him or picture his far-gone sounds or the way his hips fervently move when he’s about to orgasm. That’s none of their business.

“That really doesn’t happen,” Shane now steps in. “That _never_ happens. Does it, Bren?”

“No. No, of course not,” Brendon says, but Gabe doesn’t look disappointed, more like he is holding back a smirk. A dark desire swirls in me, something that is pleased. So Shane has never. They never have.

“I, uh, forgot something,” Brendon now says, motioning back out, eager to leave. He’s almost at the door when it gets opened for him, and one of our roadies pops his head in.

“Hey, you guys, Greta wanted you all to come check out her set. She said it’s important.”

Greta’s voice is ringing in the background as the guys exchanges glances of confusion, but no one seems to know anything. It’s not like Greta to be secretive.

I’m quick to get up, however, and lead the way. Or, well, follow Brendon, who hurries his steps but I match his pace in the narrow backstage corridor as the roadie leads us through the maze towards the stage. Patrick’s a safe distance behind me, pushing his glasses up his nose, blue bags under his eyes from the tour lifestyle, but he’s enjoying it. I walk faster, and as we ascend a short flight of stairs, I say, “I haven’t told Gabe anything that could be considered intimate.”

“Don’t talk to me right now,” he hisses back, not even looking at me.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No.” We reach the top of the stairs, and I grab his wrist, stalling him. “Listen to me.” He unwillingly locks eyes with me. God, he’s so angry. “I wouldn’t do that to _you_.”

“Funny thing about that,” he says, releasing himself from my hold. “There are plenty of things you’ve done that I never thought you’d do.”

Patrick almost walks into my back. Brendon walks off quickly, and I have no choice but to mix with the band as we approach the stage. The lights are blinding at first, but I blink it off until Greta’s form comes into view centre stage, a pink dress on her, her hair loose, and her old mahogany guitar pressed to her chest. She’s in the middle of a song, faced with the crowds of Madison Square Garden. She might as well be singing to two bored cows in a Midwestern field – that’s the air she gives off. No intimidation, no pressure. She’s just happy to be singing her songs about love and peace.

Shane joins Brendon near the guitar holder where six of my guitars are hanging, waiting to be used during our show. They talk but I can’t hear what. It’s brief, whatever it is, Brendon’s shoulders drawn tight. Great. Now he thinks that I’ve told Gabe all the dirty things we’ve done.

Vicky’s smoking with her cigarette holder, looking displeased. Her hair’s on a bun and she’s wearing a pale yellow Jacqueline Kennedy style jacket, but the denim miniskirt and her messy eyeliner break the illusion. “What’s she doing this time?” Vicky asks me, eyeing Greta suspiciously. Vicky’s still probably hurt that Greta refused Vicky’s recent offer to manage her, maintaining that Butcher manages all of her affairs. Vicky knows Greta’s going to be successful and hates her for it.

“I really don’t know.”

We watch the next two songs, after which I begin to feel tired. I can’t stay still for too long these days without feeling like my blood isn’t flowing the way it’s supposed to, reaching my head and the tips of my fingers. There have been a few incidents within the past week where the sudden dizziness has returned, but they pass quickly enough. I have no idea what’s causing it. The codeine, maybe? All drugs have side effects. I’ve learned that much. But the codeine keeps my left arm working, keeps the pain away. I have to have two working arms. I’m a guitarist, for god’s sake. And the drowsiness washing over me could just be tour exhaustion and not drug induced because I hardly sleep these days. A few hours here and there. Couldn’t sleep for six hours straight no matter how hard I tried.

Twenty thousand people applaud Greta when she finishes her song, Butcher eagerly whistling from the side of the stage. He keeps snapping pictures of her, the big camera hanging around his neck, the shots for a family album that the two of them will look at when they’re old and grey.

It’s hard to comprehend a number as huge as twenty thousand. Sometimes I try to imagine putting the thousands of people into a single row, figure out how many miles that’d be. Miles and miles and miles.

“If it’s alright with you,” Greta says into the microphone, brushing straw coloured hair behind her ear. “I’d like to ask someone very special out on stage with me.” Someone from the crowd instantly screams my name. Greta turns to us, beaming. “Butcher, come on out here.”

Butcher lowers his camera, surprised. He looks at us, but Jon just shrugs, taking the camera from him. Butcher gingerly walks on stage, nervously glancing at the crowd.

“Now what is she doing?” Vicky groans.

I almost say that I don’t know, but then I do. I think of the conversation Greta and I had a few nights back, about Johnny and June. Greta’s a modern girl. She feels perfectly at ease with taking the initiative.

That douchebag Lennon once sang that you’ve got to hide your love away. Right he was, I’ve come to find. But Greta wouldn’t subscribe to that. No, she would think it a crime.

So I guess I’m the only one who isn’t surprised when Greta proposes to Butcher on stage. It’s the kind of overdramatic gesture of love that she’d find suitable. Vicky laughs beside me at Greta’s nerve, that it’s not a woman’s place to pop the question, but Butcher doesn’t seem to care as he accepts gladly and kisses Greta on stage with thousands of witnesses. The audience cheers wildly. Cassie is wiping her eyes.

“Well,” Vicky sighs. “Guess we need to whip up an engagement party for those two fools.” She glances at me. “You think you’ll ever marry, Ryan?”

I think back to the pillow that I clearly had pulled to my chest in my sleep. Something to wrap myself around.

“No... I really don’t think I will.”

* * *

A post-show engagement party is immediately settled on, Vicky making a few calls and settling on Studio 54. She says that she knows it’s disco music, but it’s also the hottest place in New York right now and that she practically had to sell her left kidney to get us in on such short notice. When Greta comes off stage, beaming with happiness, she informs us that no, no, no, there’s a nice jazz club on West 52nd Street that she and Butcher frequent and that they want to go there. Vicky is seething, but it’s not her engagement party as Gabe reminds her. Vicky looks like she has to contain herself not to slap Gabe.

We go on in forty minutes, and the roadies are busy setting the stage while the majority of us pours back into the dressing room. I, however, go in search of one of my Gibsons, knowing that Greta adores it, and it seems like a fitting engagement present. I can buy more guitars easily enough.

I’m kneeling behind a set of piled up monitors, opening up a guitar case, when I hear familiar voices just on the other side: Brendon and Shane. Talking. The voices come closer. No, not talking. Arguing.

I stay still, trying to be as quiet as a mouse.

“It’d be rude not to go,” Shane says, sounding frustrated.

“They won’t notice us missing!” Brendon exclaims. “You know how it is when we go out with this crowd, dozens of people swarm them. They won’t even remember you and I exist.”

“Bren, it’s their engagement party.”

“But I don’t want us to go!” Brendon snaps. There’s a pause, and I can see his look of angered defiance in my mind’s eye because it’s a look that he’s given me far too often. “You and I should be home, not here with these people!”

“But we _are_ here with these people, so –”

“How much material do you need for one goddamned documentary? For god’s sake!”

“Why are you so set on hating this project when it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me? The contacts I’m making, the people I’m seeing!”

“Famous people. What’s so amazing about famous people?” Brendon scoffs, tone despising if ever. When he speaks again, he’s struggling to sound more appeasing. “Look. I just don’t feel like hanging out with this crowd tonight. So can we _please_ go home? Screw their parties. They happen every night.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“You go home if that’s what you want.”

“Excuse me?”

Shane sounds genuinely upset when he speaks. “I like Greta, she’s a damn nice girl. So I’m going. And don’t throw it in my face either! Why would I rather be home where you’ll just ignore me the way you always do these days?”

“How is this me ignoring you?!”

“It is! You know that it is! God, I’m tired of you treating me like – like a liability. You think about that. And this engagement, it’d add a wonderful one-minute scene to the documentary. Imagine Ryan giving a speech or something, what a good scene that’d make! So now I have to go get the equipment we already packed away for the night. But that’s not me ignoring you, that’s me being _busy_.” He draws in a breath. “What’s your excuse?” His tone is close to despising as his steps lead away. I had no idea Shane could have such balls.

Brendon, in turn, swears like a sailor. He walks in circles. He swears more. He heaves a sigh.

I don’t move properly until I’m sure that he’s gone, only then flipping open the metal locking clasps and opening the hard case. It’s not the Gibson I’m looking for. It’s not the time to process it either, what I eavesdropped, except to allow myself to conclude the obvious: Brendon doesn’t trust me, he doesn’t trust Gabe either, and he wants to keep his boyfriend away from us while he figures out what to do.

I wonder if Brendon will depart from the tour before it even properly gets started. Would that make me happy or unhappier?

So they fight. All couples fight.

Brendon doesn’t trust me.

I hunt down one of the roadies to ask after my guitar. It hasn’t been unloaded, even, and is in the bus’s trailer. He offers to go get it, but I take his keys and take on the task myself. Give myself a minute or two to pretend that I’m not thinking about it, fidgeting as I wait for the elevator to arrive, to take me to the parking hall where the bus is.

“Hey,” Shane’s voice says as he suddenly appears beside me. He’s smiling that happy go lucky smile of his, giving no indication of the fight he just had with his boyfriend. He looks tired, though. He looks more tired all the time. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the show?”

“Still got a bit of time. I need to get something from the bus trailer.” I show him my keys.

“Oh, I’m going down too. Need to get more film for the cameras, engagement party and all.”

“So you’re coming? To the engagement party.”

“Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” He laughs like my question is absurd, and I only shrug as the elevator arrives, the doors opening. I follow him in, letting him press the right button.

The industrial elevator hums as it starts going down, and I try to think of something to say. Small talk. Something other than how I’ve made Brendon come in ways Shane never has, and no matter what Brendon tells me, it’s clear that their relationship is not idyllic at all. But I can’t rejoice. Because even with all of that, Brendon chooses Shane over me. Makes one wonder what horrible, horrible crime I must have committed to be thought of so poorly. To not matter.

“So where will the party be?” Shane says after a pause. “Someone said that we’ll –”

Without any warning, the lights go out. The elevator stops dead, trembling and shaking. I manage to keep my balance, blinking in the sudden dark.

“What the...?” I start. I trace the wall before locating the buttons, but the elevator does not react to the press of my thumb.

“Did it jam? Are we stuck?” Shane asks from behind my shoulder worriedly.

“Does it look like we’re moving?” I snap back angrily at his inane questions. “Shit, I don’t know. Fuck!” I run my fingers along the wall and this time locate the door before banging on it and calling out. No response. Shane is pressing the buttons fervently, but that’s not doing any good. “Maybe we’re in between floors,” I say when we seem to be attracting no attention.

“But you need to go on soon!” he exclaims and joins me in the banging and yelling. “Hello! Someone?! We’re stuck in here! Hello?! Anyone at all?!” He slams the door angrily.

I stare at him suspiciously. “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Someone will hear us,” he says with such an obvious conviction in his voice that I instantly feel hope leaving me in the face of his faith.

“Go on, try then. I’m tired of this shit. All of this,” I breathe, letting myself sit on the floor by the doors that are refusing to budge. I dig into my pocket and soon swallow two codeine pills dry. My eyes are adjusting to the dark – how does it happen again? Rods and cones and all of that, reacting, millions of the damn things in the retina. However it works, it works, and Shane’s outline becomes more detailed.

It’s not a biggie. No problem. Just a sold out Madison Square Garden waiting to see Ryan Ross, who is stuck in a fucking elevator. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I swear, leaning my head against my raised knees. Stuck with Shane of all people.

“Hang on, I think I – I hear something! Hey! HEY!” He bangs more vigorously. “In here! We’re in here!”

To my surprise, it’s not wishful thinking because a foreign voice soon echoes from the other side. “Someone stuck in there?”

I quickly scramble up to my feet. “Yes! Yeah, we’re –”

“You got oxygen?”

“Oxygen?” I repeat, feeling a stone sink to the bottom of my stomach. No way in hell am I dying with only Shane Valdes to keep me company. No way in _hell_.

“Yeah!” Shane replies, peering to the ceiling. “Yeah, we do!” A ventilation valve is above us, the slats showing into the elevator shaft above, and maybe we could try to open it, and – and I don’t know, somehow get out because fuck it, I’ve got a show to do.

“Great, now you just hang in there! It’s chaos out here so sit tight and –”

“What?!” I demand. Sit tight?

“Power’s out in all of New York City! No one knows what’s happening! If it doesn’t come back on soon, the show needs to be cancelled. We’ve got a full house of restless people out there! It’s crazy! We’ll come get you, I promise!”

“But... But we – Hey!” I call out. “Hey, you need to let us out of here! For crying out loud! Hey!” I bang on the door, but there is no further response. The bastard’s gone. “I’m Ryan fucking Ross, you can’t leave me here!” I rage, but it’s no use.

Power’s out in all of New York? Shit. Fuck. But how – Maybe the thunderstorm.

“Fuck,” Shane says, and for once we agree. “Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

“Well, that roadie, but no. No one else.”

“Shit. I think we’ll be here for a while.” He sighs heavily. “So much for- for everything. Greta’s engagement party.”

“It’s a night of big events,” I mumble and resume my position on the floor. Shane slides down the door and sits down next to me. He looks defeated, or his outline does. “Here,” I say, offering him a cigarette. Not sure if he even smokes. He doesn’t, if the way his hand hovers, hesitating, is any indication, but he accepts anyway. I light his cigarette and mine, since oxygen isn’t a problem. I take in a deep, deep drag. God. God, what a night. “Wonder if they’re looking for us.”

He laughs. “Of course they are. You said it yourself – you’re Ryan fucking Ross. You’re the guy that this show is encircling. They’re looking for you frantically, trust me.” He flicks his cigarette, his face now slightly illuminated by the red tip. “I wonder if anyone’s looking for me at all.” His words sound bitter, and I know what he’s thinking. His tiff with Brendon is still echoing in my ears. We never – I mean, we’ve fought. Brendon and I, we’ve had our fights. Brutal fights. But we’ve never bickered and snapped like an old couple, but that’s what he and Shane are: an old couple.

“You talking about Brendon?” I ask, looking at him. I can’t see his expression in the dark properly, but I add, “I’ve just noticed some tension between you two. That’s all.”

He sighs. “That obvious, huh?”

I hum in agreement and wonder if I really want to know. Then I realise that I’m stuck with Shane and that I’m a masochist. I do want to know. “You guys okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, but then laughs sadly. “I don’t know why I said that. We’re not okay, no.”

“You want to talk about it? I mean, maybe it’ll help the time pass.” I motion with my hand vaguely, a ‘time passing’ hand gesture.

He sighs, an undetermined sigh that says that he doesn’t know. I realise how little I know of Shane. His friends. His likes. His dislikes. Who is he close to? He and Jon get on, but they’re hardly confidants. None of his friends – and I assume he has some scattered in New York and San Francisco – are on tour, so he can’t talk to any of them. Well, I’m here. I won’t be his friend, but I’ll listen. Let him give me his insight on what the hell is wrong with Brendon Urie.

Shane lets out a deep breath that almost resembles a groan. “I don’t know... He’s just distant. He’s not. He’s not _there_ , you know? Like sand running through my fingers. And he says he wants to be with me, but I just – Don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s changed somehow. And I thought we were on really solid ground, where we didn’t have to question us anymore, you know?” He glances at me with big, sad eyes, waiting for someone to side with him on this.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

A fucked up solidarity washes over me. Shane and I aren’t that different in the end. We’re both fools for the boy, getting played with no idea at all as to what Brendon is thinking. Shane’s still better than me, though. The one Brendon chose.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love him more than anything,” he hurries to add and then laughs. “I can imagine how gay that sounds to you, but now that I know that you... you know. Men too. I mean. Maybe you can relate a little.”

“To be fair, I just fuck men,” I tell him with a sardonic smile. He doesn’t get the joke, he just laughs like yeah, of course. “But go on.”

“Well, sometimes, like today, I just – I get reminded that he’s really good at keeping people away. He’s always been like that. If he doesn’t want to let you in, you’re fucked. We’d been together for months before I even managed to get him to tell me anything about his past. I get it now, though. I mean, maybe that’s why he keeps people away, you know? He expects people to leave him.”

That’s funny. As far as I can see, it’s Brendon who does the walking away. He has regard for himself. Self-respect. That’s what ruined me the first time. All boiling down to some teenage promise of ‘never again’ when he stood on the side of the road hitch-hiking with his right arm in a cast, hoping that the dark of the night would hide the bruises on his face. 

“I’ve said too much,” Shane says apologetically and sucks on the cigarette nervously.

“Not at all. Who would I tell?” I ask, motioning around our prison. Occasionally we hear voices from outside, but none come closer. The electricity hasn’t come back on, and I guess that means we’re cancelling the show. They must be busy trying to get everyone out in an orderly fashion. I bet Vicky’s looking for me. I’m that girl’s first thought in everything. Not my fault that the city’s electricity is down. Not my fault but I feel a small tinge of guilt that people came out here for no reason.

“Your, uh. Your dad,” Shane says softly. “He’s sickly, I think you once said?”

“Yeah.”

“You see him a lot?”

“No. Haven’t seen him in years.” And don’t plan to and will feel no remorse about it when he dies. That’s my plan. That’s how it works in my head.

My tone is harsh enough for Shane to drop it. He just mumbles, “I can’t relate to losing one’s parents, that’s all. Brendon was only ten, you know.”

“Yeah, that must be tough, that –” Wait. “What?”

“His parents died in a car crash,” Shane says, and some kind of a switch flicks on inside me. “He was an only child. He came from a well off family, you know, his dad was a business man, but the aunt he was sent to live with gambled off his inheritance. She didn’t care for him, the witch. So when he moved to San Francisco, he didn’t have a cent to his name. Can you imagine that? His parents had wanted him to go to Yale. It’s not fair, is it? Life.” He runs fingers through his hair restlessly. “No one really wanted him growing up. That’s how he still views things. Well, I want him. It’s been over two years, and I feel like I’m still trying to prove that I want him and won’t abandon him. You’d think he’d know that... after all we’ve been through.” He shakes his head tiredly. “Now he’s pushing me away. I don’t know why. I’m running out of patience, too, and it only makes things worse.”

“That’s, um. That’s a very... unfortunate past. I had no idea.”

Shane laughs. “Well. He wouldn’t tell you, would he?”

“No. Hardly know him, after all,” I chuckle to amplify Shane’s amusement over the thought. But I’m not amused. Car crashes, wealthy parents and wicked relatives? My god. And here I thought – I don’t know what.

A chorus of voices sound beyond the doors, a rushed, “In here, you said?”, followed by banging and Vicky’s worried voice. “Ryan? Is it you in there?!”

My saviour, that girl.

“Yeah, Vicky,” I call out without trying to get up. I keep smoking my cigarette as Vicky shouts for more flashlights and crowbars or anything. Shane’s up on his feet again, calling out for our rescue. Suddenly, I’ve got all the time in the world. In no hurry whatsoever.

My lips quirk up at the corners, and I let myself smirk.

* * *

Shattered glass paints the sidewalk as looters help themselves to TVs, VCRs, food and whatever else. We cross the darkened street, police sirens ringing out in the distance. Vicky keeps hurrying Gabe and me to the doors of the Startler Hilton opposite Madison Square Garden.

I’m in no rush. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything as fascinating in my life: a city in chaos. And all the tall buildings, the dazzling lights of New York, are gone. Instead a long, long row of black, gigantic blocks of dead skyscrapers decorate the streets, and people are walking around looking lost, but some strut with a clear sense of purpose and a baseball bat.

It took them an hour to get us out of the elevator. In the meanwhile Vicky evacuated the rest of the crew to the hotel, which has no electricity either, but she said that they provided the rooms with gas lanterns and candles. She keeps speaking like we’re under attack from ourselves. Vandalism has erupted, sure, people are looting and breaking shit, but I feel at home in New York for the first time since I got here. It all fits somehow: Brendon’s lies and the pandemonium of the city.

Brendon looked sick when I finally pulled up from the elevator, the floor coming up to our chests as we were in between floors. He was pale. I know what he thought: that locked in with Shane, I’d tell him all about us. All about the way Brendon can come without getting his dick touched, the way he laughs disbelievingly afterwards, golden and godlike.

Lies, lies, lies spilling from Brendon’s lips.

I feel more driven insane by my love for him than I ever have. He should have told me.

Shane seemed pleased that Brendon stuck around waiting. Gabe, on the other hand, kept laughing during the rescue operation. He seemed to think it was funny. The dream couple already left for the hotel, but I wanted to go get Greta’s Gibson, dragging Gabe and Vicky to the basement with me. The guitar is now in a gig bag, hanging across my back as a strap digs into my left shoulder.

Blackout or no blackout, they’ve still gotten engaged.

“Come on,” Vicky snaps. I’m still standing in the middle of the street, watching the groups of people that are like wandering masses emigrating. Someone breaks a shop window. No alarm goes off. The evening air is hot, the city in the midst of a heat wave. Sweat rolls down my neck. “Ryan, for god’s sake!” She grabs my arm and drags me to the hotel doors where Gabe is waiting. I don’t want to go inside – I want to stay out, Mom.

“Can’t I just walk home?”

Vicky looks furious. “Would Elvis Presley walk home? Would Frank Sinatra walk home?!”

“No, he’d have the mobs pick him up,” Gabe says. “You’re sexy when you’re mad, Victoria.”

“Ryan,” she says, ignoring Gabe promptly. “There’s anarchy out in the streets. There are riots in Brooklyn! So you come inside right now and stay safe.”

“But –”

“Ryan.” My head instantly turns to the direction of his voice. Brendon’s at the hotel door, looking at me evenly. “Please come inside.”

The streets are buzzing with a new, forbidden energy, and I can’t join in. Brendon’s asking me to hide and wait for it to pass, for things to go numb again. Because I feel. Suddenly, I feel more than I have in weeks, for him, about him, the world, how it all works. Oh, Brendon. Brendon, you did such a foolish thing.

My feet take the steps up to the huge doors of the hotel that takes the largest chunk of the block, and we enter a candlelit lobby, eerie and otherworldly as our steps echo amongst the marble pillars and bounce off the high ceiling. Brendon leads the way, saying how they were getting worried about us taking so long so he came to check, and that the guys are killing time playing cards in candlelight and playing songs and someone found some booze so it’s an engagement party of a kind.

“Gabe,” I say, shrugging the guitar bag off my shoulder and passing it to him. “Give that to Greta, will you?” We’re at the bottom of the stairs – elevators not working, of course. “Brendon and I need a minute.”

We need a lifetime, but I’ll start small.

Vicky sighs. She almost glares at Brendon and says, “Make sure he doesn’t leave the building.” Brendon looks thrown off as my manager begins to climb the stairs. “Hurry up, Saporta!” she snaps.

“I’ll tell them something,” Gabe says simply, but he doesn’t smirk or give that all knowing look he’s grown so fond of since the Baltimore incident. Maybe it’s something he can read on my face, that now is not the time to be throwing innuendos around or purposefully tease Brendon. He looks almost solemn before hurrying after Vicky.

“Can’t it wait, whatever it is?” Brendon asks me, but I shake my head, and I’m surprised that he doesn’t put up more of a fight as I nod back to the grand lobby.

“Vicky said you helped put our stuff away,” I say vaguely, which he must know is just bullshit, an excuse, but he nods and leads the way to the luggage room. I express a wish to locate a bag I had in the dressing room, the one with an extra shirt because clearly that’s what I’m after now when the lights are out: a clean shirt when it’s too dark to see stains. No staff is around so we enter the small, narrow room that is barely illuminated by a flashlight someone’s left on one of the shelves.

I close the door behind us. He starts looking through bags that are eyelevel with him. “It’s romantic somehow, isn’t it?” I ask, leaning my elbow on one of the shelves. “A blackout. Although getting stuck in an elevator with Shane isn’t really what I’d call romantic, but it could be with the right person.” He lets out a dismissive hum and keeps checking the bags. “All of the city is in chaos. Subways aren’t running, nothing is open, it’s dark everywhere. Hot as hell. Humid. Imagine all the people copulating in all kinds of places right now, maybe in luggage rooms or –”

“Stop it,” he says and pulls out a small leather bag. “Is this the one?”

“I wanted to give you my condolences,” I say, and he quirks an eyebrow. “I didn’t know your parents died.”

“They haven’t died,” he says impatiently and pushes the bag back to its place.

“Oh but – But they did. When you were little, remember? Your rich parents who _loved_ you, but then a bad, big truck ground them to minced meat. Bad truck. Bad, bad truck. And then this – This evil aunt character!” I laugh – try not to laugh but can’t help it. “My god, it’s like you turned your life into a Charles Dickens novel! And Shane bought it? No, really. He _bought_ it?”

I can’t see all the shades in our new monochromatic world, but Brendon might have paled. Yeah. Yeah, he lied alright. But I won’t ask him why because I already know.

“That doesn’t concern you whatsoever,” he says angrily. 

“But it does. Because all this time I thought that – that Shane was just better. That he had something I didn’t, that you two shared some kind of a holy fucking bond that even your adultery couldn’t shake. And now I finally see that he’s just a puppet to you! That’s all he is! You don’t even bother telling him the truth. No, let me finish!” I say when he’s about to object. It’s like a mystery novel, and we’ve finally gotten to the part where the guilty party gets exposed, and although it’s been obvious from the start that Mr. Urie did it with the knife in the library, the motive has been missing, and now I finally have it. “Because he matters, doesn’t he? Shane. He matters because he doesn’t know. I can’t imagine, Brendon, all the things you did on your travels, all the shit you went through. I bet you’ve done things you’re not proud of. And Shane doesn’t know any of that so with him... with him you can pretend that it never happened. I bet you even believe it sometimes, this alternate history of yours. You think that... that if Shane knew, he wouldn’t love you. So you lie. You lie to be worthy of his mediocrity.”

“Are you done now?” he snaps. I’ve hit a nerve. Of course I have because I’m right.

“There is a flaw in this scheme of yours, however, and that’s that he doesn’t love you. He loves the person you’re trying to be, but not the person you are. He has no idea who you are. Whereas I –”

“Ryan, please,” he whispers, but I’m not done. I feel desperate and urgent, needing to tell him this once and for all. Before I can, he rushes out, “Okay, I’ve lied to Shane. I didn’t – I _don’t_ want him to know about my family or what happened. You don’t get it, Ryan, but he’s not like – not like you or me. He comes from a perfect little family. His mother is _proud_ that he is gay! I mean – Proud parents. I never even thought that could be possible! So there’s him, while I’m –” he says, gesturing with his hands but coming up with nothing. “Christ. If he knew, there’d be no end to his questions. He feels sorry for me as it is. So no, I’ve never told him. But we love each other. We’re real. You think what you think but –”

“Your sham of a relationship is falling apart. Can’t you see that? Poor Shane’s walking around, wondering why you’re distant, not knowing that you were never even close! Whereas I know. I know the things you’ve done. I know the bad in you, all the things you’re ashamed of, the ugly parts you don’t want anyone to see. I’ve felt all of it beneath your skin. I know. And you’re still beautiful to me.”

He has that closed off expression he gets when he’s blocking me out, blocking my words out – Shane knows that much, that Brendon can keep us at a distance. I am tormented. I don’t understand. I finally know what Shane means to him, the chance to pretend, to redeem himself, even, but life doesn’t work like that. We can never remove ourselves from our pasts. I know because I’ve tried, but I still wake up every day as the son of an alcoholic veteran who didn’t have an ounce of family man or father in him, and as the son of a woman who only made herself known by her absence, and I can sing and tour and make hit records, but tomorrow I’ll still be the same man. I cannot be magically transformed. I can evolve, but whatever I become is built upon what I was. Brendon is trying to reinvent himself by taking a shortcut. It cannot be done and will only end in disappointment.

I wouldn’t tell him to be any different. I wouldn’t ask him to change. “Brendon,” I say softly. He looks at me. “I know who you are, and I love you.”

He breathes out fast and unevenly, dropping his gaze. “Please don’t say that.”

His pained look cuts deep into me, even through my victory over Shane. “Is it that unpleasant for you to hear?” I ask quietly. No response. “Does my love disgust you?”

“I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“But why is my love secondary?” I ask angrily, hurt boiling inside me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me in his eyes. What I can say or do to make him understand the gravity of what I’m saying. Does he think I’m lying? Does he think that my feelings don’t correspond to normal human feelings, that my love is a lesser love? “How can you choose someone like Shane when I offer you –”

“You know nothing about Shane and me!” he retaliates, like some line has been crossed and he won’t hold his tongue a second longer. “I know I don’t deserve him! I know that, Ryan! I’ve lied and I’ve cheated when he’s been nothing but good to me! You think you’ve got us figured out, but you don’t. You know nothing about us, the things he’s done for me, all the –”

“Like what?”

“We love each other despite –”

“Like what?!” I demand because there’s something here he’s not telling me, something that’s made Shane such a godlike figure in his eyes.

“You wanted us to be over just as much as I did, but now that you don’t have me anymore, you’re chasing me again. How fucking typical, Ryan Ross, how fucking _typical_! God, can’t you just stop with this nonsense?!”

“Nonsense?” I repeat icily. He says he can hear it in my songs – my feelings for him – but would rather think it’s lyrical exaggeration. Wants me to confirm it for him too. But I won’t. Can’t. I’m not perfect, I know that. He’s still mad about Gabe, and would be madder if he knew that Vicky and Jon know too, and I know I’ve been an asshole lately, ignored his peace offers but all of this has just hurt too much, but now I’ve turned around and lain myself out there yet again and he still – He still _won’t_. “I didn’t know my love for you was nonsense.”

He briefly touches his temple like a sudden headache’s come on. “I didn’t... Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. I just –”

“I’m not doing this for the sake of chasing you,” I hiss venomously. “I’m beyond that. And _we’re_ better than that.” I slam the flashlight off the shelf, and it smashes to the floor with a crash. The light goes out.

I get out of the luggage room, back to the lobby. Instead of heading for the stairs, I head straight to the doors. He follows me, calling out my name in this infuriating ‘don’t be stupid’ tone, like I’m overreacting. “Ryan, where are you going?!”

“Out,” I respond simply.

Out. To join my people.

He doesn’t try to stop me.

The city is still covered in black, and two policemen are arresting a man just as I walk out of the hotel, pressing his face against the asphalt.

The man screams like a wild animal.

* * *

There’s a girl sitting on the steps of my building. She’s holding a bottle of champagne and looks like she has walked out of a fashion show. The diamond decorations on her high-heels sparkle as a fire engine with the sirens on speeds down the street. She looks just like I remember her.

“I heard there was a party,” she tells me with a broad smile when I stop to take her in. She pushes bushy hair back, still a crazy pink colour. Her heavily done up eyes land on me, dreamlike and soft.

“How you liking it, then?”

“Well, the show was goddamned cancelled. All the lights went out, you see. Lots of new guys around who don’t know their classics. I decided to cut the line and managed to get this address.”

I smirk. “You been waiting for me?”

“Oh, no. There were some detours.” She takes a slug of her champagne before casting a long, hard look my way. “How you doing, Ryan?”

“Not well. I’m in love.”

She shakes her head. “Love’s such a dreadful thing.” She pats the step next to her.

I join her on the third step and take the champagne bottle that she offers. “I need a good party,” she muses. “A change of scenery. Just for a few days.” There’s a question in her voice, and I nod briefly to grant permission.

“You sure know how to start, Audrey.”

She hums in agreement.

We watch silently as a darkened New York sinks into a black hole.


	3. Boyd Castro

Audrey doesn’t officially join our group of tired rockers until our last night in New York. It’s an awkward and tense night, Cassie walking straight out of the room to demonstrate solidarity towards Keltie, I think, like I’m not allowed to move on or to look at other women. One throw off comment to Brendon about Audrey being an old friend of his has him paling before I add that the two met, after all, during the last Followers tour. From what I understood at the time, they even hung out during the break.

Brendon gives me an accusatory look, as if now that I know Shane is clueless about his past, I would just have to drag Brendon’s old childhood acquaintance into the mix. I didn’t. Audrey just showed up.

The two exchange a cool hello. Guess they didn’t become bosom buddies back then.

It’s Gabe who ends up taking Audrey home that night. He seems smitten, and Audrey loves the attention. It’s no wonder she was such a well-loved groupie back in her day. From what I’ve heard, she hasn’t been around much lately. Someone said she just kind of vanished, like maybe she decided to go home at last. Home. Do groupies really have homes?

Butcher hops on the bus to Chicago that night because a lady such as Audrey should have a seat on the plane. Chivalry isn’t dead – it’s just stupid.

But I don’t object because Audrey makes things brighter. She chats to everyone, but not mindlessly like Greta does. Not at all. Audrey’s got a strong, feminine, sexual aura. That hasn’t gone anywhere. Patrick stares at her in awe during our flight while Shane asks Audrey to tell him Followers stories. She does, talking about Spencer and Joe and Brent, making us sound like heroes in our own right. She probably knows that neither Brendon nor I will step in with an “actually, that’s not how it happened...” She even makes me sound like a nice guy. “Anyway,” she concludes, “I merely made a cameo on that tour. Spent the rest of the summer with Bowie and Uriah Heep.”

“Really? So who were you –”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” she smirks. Shane looks all the more intrigued.

Once we get to Chicago, Jon and Cassie go their own way as they’re staying with Cassie’s parents. Jon’s having a hard time trying to remain neutral in the Audrey versus Keltie’s ghost conflict and seems happy to be going with Cassie for now. I don’t take it personally. I’ve seen Jon and Brendon hanging out more and more, and all the while Jon is not telling Cassie what actually happened between Keltie and me. It can’t be easy for him either.

The rest of us get taken to the hotel for a quick rest with nothing to look forward to except interviews, interviews, radio station and then the arena.

Audrey and I end up lying on our stomachs on my hotel bed, watching Happy Days and smoking cigarettes. She’s good company because she expects nothing of me, not even commenting when I throw three pills down my throat.

“So,” she says after we’ve settled, quirking an eyebrow at me. “Do you kiss and tell?”

I frown. Is she expecting sex?

She adds, “Because I’ve been trying to figure out who it is.”

“Who who is?”

“The person who’s making you miserable.” Ah. I see. Is my misery that plain to see? “I thought it was that dancer girl first, but you haven’t said a thing about her. Then Patrick mentioned last night how you were caught cheating. I’d forgotten about that, so then I suspected your manager. God knows she hates my guts,” she laughs, which is true. Vicky has been PMSing ever since Audrey first walked in. “But you’re not even looking her way. I’m baffled, Ryan Ross. I am very much...” She blows out smoke. “Baffled.”

“Guess you’ll never know,” I say, wondering how well she realises that I’m using her to distract myself. She knows, though. That’s what all groupies are: distractions with a side of comfort.

“You know there are...” she starts, her teasing and playful tone now gone. She brushes her pink hair that’s dark at the roots.

“Yeah?”

“There are rumours about you.”

“I’m sorry?”

She looks slightly uncomfortable but then shrugs. “Elitist rumours, I’d say. Not common knowledge ones by any means.” She rushes it out before I get the wrong impression. “Within certain circles, it just has been said that you... Well, a few times you’ve been seen leaving bars and parties with men. And not. Women. Leaving together is hardly evidence, but – There are rumours.” She silences, and I watch Fonzie prancing on the screen. Silence lands on us as she waits for me to say something. I can’t think of anything to say, the icy sensation in my guts chilling me to the bone. “Well,” she says at last. “I expected you to make a case for yourself or throw me out, but you’re doing neither.”

“So?”

She shrugs. “So nothing. I mean, look at Elton John – everyone _knows_ he’s gay but as long as it remains hearsay, then that’s all it’ll ever be. Though, come on. Look at what he wears.”

“But I’m not gay,” I say firmly and suck on my cigarette. My hand trembles ever so slightly. I’m not gay. I never have been. “I’m just... not fully straight. Sometimes.” Which isn’t the same as full gay all the time. Rumours about my sexuality shouldn’t surprise me – how unlikely is it that I’ve never been recognised when Gabe and I used to go searching for quick fucks in gay clubs? Or that no one’s ever seen me with a pretty brown haired boy, going back to his place? There was this one guy who said ‘Ryan’ when he climaxed, although I’d told him my name was Henry. I knew there must be rumours, but this is the first time those rumours have gotten back to me. Their circulation, if elitist, is still wider than acceptable. They still can’t prove any of it, she’s right. Not unless I get caught fucking a man or come out and say it, and neither of those things is happening.

Still. Rumours. Fuck, that’d be a stupid way to ruin my career. I wonder if Vicky knows the gossip that floats around. She’d strangle me for sure.

“Not fully straight,” she repeats thoughtfully, no accusation in her tone. Well. I suppose she can hardly judge me based on who I sleep with. “See, that broadens the possibilities for me in this guessing game, so...” She laughs. “So as silly as it is, I think I’ll hazard a guess: Brendon. Although why you- why you’d be in love with that little oddball from down the street is beyond me.”

She stares at me expectantly. I feel nauseous.

It’s beyond me too these days. I could write essays on why him and not anyone else, why it was him specifically, but right now I couldn’t say. I must be an idiot running after someone who thinks it’s nonsense, that my feelings are not to be taken seriously. Who so clearly feels nothing back but I can’t bring myself to admit it. I keep telling myself that he does feel something. I know he did, I could feel it in the way we moved, in the way he kissed me. Saying that he missed me. He fucking cheated on Shane for me. It all counts for something but adds up to nothing.

“How do you know?”

“Honey, it’s my job to figure out who’s fucking who,” she smirks. When I don’t indicate that I’m amused, she gently says, “Because you two keep looking at each other when the other one isn’t looking.”

“Does he really?” I ask quietly, and she nods. She might be saying it out of pity, my pathetic longing obvious to her. She knows Brendon’s seeing someone else, and here I am, hibernating in a hotel room like a wounded animal.

“You were asking all these questions about him that summer. Were you two...?” She makes a vague hand gesture, and I nod. “So it’s an old thing.”

“Ancient. Feels like it’s been going on my entire life. Doesn’t matter, though. History. It doesn’t matter what you’ve – seen or felt or been through together if you decide that it doesn’t matter. If he decides that it didn’t matter.” I stub my cigarette into the ashtray we’ve placed between our elbows on the bed. Instead of giving her some long and elaborate blow-by-blow account, I only give her the end result because that’s what sums it all up, shows what a load of nothing we achieved. “He chose Shane.”

“Blah, that Shane character,” she says with disdain. “He’s too _nice_.”

“Trust me, I fucking know. I just want to punch him in the fucking face.”

She laughs, and I can’t help but laugh too. It feels good to talk to someone about this. Gabe knows I’m a mess, but nothing he’s doing is exactly helpful. He doesn’t get how deep it runs. Neither does Vicky. I think Jon gets it, but he, on the other hand, doesn’t know how big of a mess I am. And I need to be running this show. Give my band confidence. Whereas Audrey, well – she’s on the outside. She keeps her mouth shut. She’s only here to make the ride more enjoyable, and if she stops performing that function, I wave her off.

“I’m sure Brendon doesn’t think that you two don’t matter,” Audrey says sympathetically.

“He called it nonsense.”

“Well, he – he probably meant that... I mean.”

Yeah. Exactly.

A knock echoes from the door, and Audrey gets up like she’s been saved by the bell. “I’ll get it.” She steps over my suitcase on her way over, and I sigh and roll onto my back, the world suddenly upside down. She opens the door slightly, exchanging a few words with a male voice. “Fine. Fine, I’ll ask. Ryan!” she calls over her shoulder, “Shane wants to know if he can interview you tonight.”

“Too busy.”

Shane’s voice calls out, “We don’t have a single exclusive interview with you yet! Ryan, come on. It’d only take two hours, we could do it after the show or –”

“He’s too busy,” Audrey says. “In fact, he will _never_ have time for your interview.” She closes the door in Shane’s face. I start laughing, and she grins as she makes her way back over. “That any better?”

“A little bit.”

I imagine Shane standing in the hotel corridor, blinking at the door in shock.

It’s a momentary comfort.

* * *

Jon’s father invites the entire crew over to the Walker residence, which I first assumed he’d probably regret come tomorrow. I forgot, however, that Jon’s been in bands since he was a teenager, and so his parents are well accustomed to musicians: there’s a buffet of cold beer and as many pork ribs and chicken legs as one can humanly consume. It’s a nice change from the drug heavy clubs, standing in the Walkers’ living room and signing the new LP for Jon’s cousins while his grandma chats with Butcher in the corner.

But I overdo it. I always overdo these things.

It’s just slight nausea at first, but soon it’s strong enough for me to find the nearest bathroom. I throw up all I’ve eaten, colourless lumps of dead animal meat mixed with my saliva, poorly chewed. A cold sweat breaks out, and then a headache, and I sit on the floor shivering and take more codeine pills.

It’s what keeps me on the road. Makes me pleasantly numb. Sometimes. It comes with a price I’m willing to pay.

“Ryan, are you alright in there?” Vicky’s voice comes from outside. She’s constantly breathing down my neck.

“Piss off,” I call back tiredly. I hear her huffing. We’re arguing more and more, Vicky and I.

I gather my strength, rinse my mouth, and eventually manage to get out of the bathroom.

Audrey’s organised a small party in the meantime to go climb over the fence of the private pool two blocks down after Jon made the mistake of telling her they used to do that as kids. “Let’s go be naughty,” she grins.

“Let me just find my hat,” I tell her because I found one of Jac’s old creations back in New York, and Audrey liked it – I wonder if they would have gotten along had they ever been introduced – and I was wearing it when we got here but I put it down somewhere.

“We’ll wait outside!” she calls after me, linking arms with Gabe and joining the eager soon-to-be lawbreaking swimmers.

The hat has been stolen by one of Jon’s cousins – I think she intended to keep it as proof or a memory or sniffing material for masturbation, but I reclaim it easily enough as she only stutters when she sees me. I steal someone’s pack of cigarettes on the way out, waving bye to the ones who are not as adventurous.

I’m halfway down the front steps when a simple “Hey” stops me where I am. I look back onto the porch to see Brendon there, Shane’s leather jacket on him, smoking. I put the hat on, nodding. It’s not like him to address me or acknowledge my existence.

“You going swimming with Audrey’s group of admirers?” he asks and motions over to the lawn where roughly a dozen rebels are waiting.

“Yeah, sounded like fun. Aren’t you coming?”

He shakes his head. “I was planning on going for a walk. Jon said there’s a park nearby.”

“Ryan! Come on!” someone yells, drunken laughter erupting.

“That’s my cue. Catch you on the –”

“You wanna come?”

I stare at him. “Sorry?”

“For a walk, I mean. Although I guess Audrey’s more vibrant company.” He flicks his cigarette casually. They’re calling out for me impatiently, Audrey’s voice ringing out the loudest. His jaw sets tight. “Well?”

“Ryan!” Audrey yells demandingly, and I look her way and then back at Brendon. He’s staring at his shoes. Audrey’s staring at us. He seems to have tensed up.

“Yeah. A walk. Sure.”

He looks up, a wave of warmth flushing over me when his brown eyes meet mine. “Okay,” he says with a small smile. Okay. Great. Fantastic.

I hastily motion for Audrey to go on without me. She looks ticked off, but then stalks off, the group casting looks our way. Yeah, whatever.

Brendon nudges my shoulder as he passes me, and I try to contain the swelling sensation in my chest. I follow, falling into step with him.

A mild breeze smelling of traffic fumes follows us in the June evening. It’s a nice middle class suburban neighbourhood that’s quiet at night because the people who live here have work in the morning and their kids don’t have a habit of running wild. He smokes his cigarette as we go the opposite way from the others. Just the two of us.

“Where did you leave your boyfriend?”

“Snoring on Jon’s parents’ bed,” he says, shrugging. “He needs the rest.”

He doesn’t seem to be missing his boyfriend much. Wandering off into the night with me instead.

The park is just around the corner, deserted at this time of night. Houses surround it on all sides, and a playground sits at the heart of it. We aim for it without meaning to, and he sits on one of the swings to finish off his cigarette. It’s hardly even a walk, and I’m left wondering what his motives are. Pity? A random act of kindness, letting me enjoy his exclusive company for a little while?

He notices me staring. “What?”

“Just wondering what you want.”

“Nothing,” he says, sounding mildly irritated. He pushes backwards, and the swing creeps into motion. I sit on the other one and wait. He’ll spit it out after a while. I just need patience. That’s what I keep telling myself: I have to be patient with him.

“So the second New York show got rescheduled to August?” he asks, and I nod. “That’s too bad. It was a crazy night, right?” I hum in agreement as he beats around the bush. “Stressful, too. Kept worrying about you and Shane when you were stuck in that elevator. It made the papers, don’t know if you saw. ‘Ryan Ross stuck in elevator during blackout’.”

“Yeah, Vicky informed me.” He worried. He just said that he worried.

“It was chaotic, all of it, even at the hotel. I barely even remember what I said to you.”

That makes one of us. I remember it word to word. Another rejection. How many can I take? But now, two days later, he’s pulled me aside. He takes in a deep, uneven breath. “Are you fucking her?” He looks at me evenly, but he seems tense. “Audrey.”

I focus my gaze on a seesaw, forlornly tilted to one side. Never half and half. Never eye to eye. “Why?”

“She’s still in touch with someone back home. That’s how I found out that Matt had died back when it happened. I see her, and I wait for bad news.”

“Me doing her would be bad news?” I question.

He kicks the ground to make the almost still swing move again. “It’d just be you saying one thing but doing another.” He slowly swings back and forth. “Like you always do.”

He’s not admitting that he’s jealous, but maybe that it bothers him. That it might bother him.

“I’m not fucking her,” I say silently and honestly. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t mean anything.” I get out a cigarette but then feel no desire to light it. “You should know that.” He should. I’ve told him time and time again. He says nothing, however. “You still pissed off about Gabe?”

He blows out smoke and laughs bitterly. “What do you think?” Right. Guess I’m not getting off the hook quite that easily. “I thought we had agreed to keep our mouths shut. Isn’t that the basis of any affair?” he questions. I don’t like the word ‘affair’. It doesn’t even begin to describe what we had. “Gabe’s not gonna tell Shane, though,” he then says. “I know that, but that doesn’t make it okay.” He scratches his nose quickly. “I mean, I guess I get it. If you wanted somebody to talk to.” He looks down to his shoes that are sliding half an inch above ground. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. To have at least one person you can be honest with.”

So he hasn’t told a single soul. All those stolen afternoons and lies and secret meetings, and he’s kept it all to himself. It occurs to me that he wishes he had been able to talk to someone. Well, who? Ian who has a crush on me? William who hates my guts and loves Shane? Above all, what would he have said to those people? A yearning fills me, a deep-seeded desire to know what those words would have been.

“You can talk to me,” I offer.

“About us?” he laughs disbelievingly. Now there’s a word I love: us. The way it slips into the conversation and how he doesn’t correct himself. Not dead yet. Not dead. “I don’t think so.” He drops his cigarette and steps on it, his swing coming to a stop. It’s not such a crazy idea, for him to talk to me about us. I represent half of the topic, anyway. We just never were the talking kind. Guessing and not saying seemed like more fun. More destructive.

He stands up, the swing swaying on its own accord. At first I think that we’re continuing our walk as he takes off, but then he stops. I remain in the swing, fiddling with the unlit cigarette.

He fidgets slightly before saying, “I’m sorry. That I called it nonsense. I know that it pissed you off. I can’t know the... the strength of what you feel.”

I stare at him, speechless. “How can you not?”

He remains still as clouds shift over the crescent moon, enveloping him in darker shades. Something in his stance, the way he hangs his head, looks vulnerable. Like I see a side of him, a core that I’ve been fighting to see for months now.

I stand up quickly. “Bren –”

“I should go now.” His voice wavers. “I have a feeling that I should go.” He smiles my way uncertainly, backing away. I don’t follow. I stay still. He smiles wider. “I’m loving the hat, by the way.”

I touch the brim of it as he turns around, heading back to the house where his boyfriend sleeps.

* * *

Vicky calls out my name from across the crowded suite. I only lift a half-interested eyebrow, not wanting to interrupt my conversation with Patrick about why the clarinet is an underappreciated instrument. Patrick’s got a girl glued to his side, a pretty model like thing he’d never have a chance with in real life. He’s soaking in the sudden fame like a sponge, loving it even as he’s terrified of it. Something about it all reminds me of Joe in the early Followers days, but I try not to think about that.

Vicky snakes through the chattering crowd, excusing herself as she gets guests out of her way: Chicago musicians, our friends, some journalists, some groupies. Vicky’s hair is in a careless bun, a sure sign that she’s stressed because her hair is always exactly how she wants it to be. Not this time. “Ryan, I need to have a word,” she says. Audrey, who has been talking to everyone, now appears at my side, linking arms with me happily. Vicky stares at her pink emergence like it’s blasphemous. “ _Alone_ ,” she stresses.

Audrey smiles. “Well, aren’t you a greedy thing, wanting Ryan all to yourself.”

“I’m his manager,” Vicky states and grabs my arm.

Patrick laughs, eyes smiling at me. “Your destiny in this world is to be fought over by beautiful women, eh?”

“It’s true,” I smirk, giving Audrey’s ass a friendly pat as I go with Vicky reluctantly. She’s nowhere near as fun as Audrey. One thing I’ll give for Pete as a manager – he understood the soothing effect of women on a crowd of sex-hungry musicians. Vicky doesn’t.

Vicky heads for the bedroom that I’ll be sleeping in once the sun starts coming up. It was another good show in Chicago tonight, the performances slowly becoming a part of a routine. Europe next, then a break, and then the big, massive North American tour. This is a teaser, like Vicky herself put it. Will enable us to push the ticket prices up or something. I’ll let her worry about the money.

We almost walk into a kissing Greta and Butcher on the way, their perfect love more obnoxious than ever, but I can’t bring myself to mind. Vicky huffs and opens the bedroom door. My eyes land on Brendon in the corner, chatting to Jon again, and he happens to look up and meet my gaze. I stop without meaning to. I mouth ‘Hey’ because I haven’t had the chance to speak to him all day, barely even seen him because of the interview load. He breaks into a small smile, warmth in his eyes. Not rejection.

Jon says something. Brendon instantly looks back to his companion, nodding too much and probably speaking too fast. Nervous.

I’d take him away right now if he let me.

“This is important,” Vicky says impatiently, and I sigh and follow her to the bedroom unwillingly. She closes the door while I sit down on the bed, waiting to be lectured.

“Let’s have it then,” I sigh. She looks confused. “Audrey?”

“No, nothing to do with that pink ball of brainlessness,” she says. “Although she is leaving soon, I hope. She certainly isn’t welcome for _all_ of the tour, and –”

“She’s going soon, yeah.” I’m confused. “So what’s this about?”

She lets out a deep breath, and only then do I notice how stressed out and thrown off she looks. “It’s about Brendon.”

She instantly has my attention. I keep thinking about last night, in the park. What would have happened if he had stayed? Did he know he’d stop fighting, and that’s why he had to go? I see us sitting on our respective swings, leaning out too far to kiss in the park like two teenagers. I wouldn’t have minded that. Let Shane sleep forever, until he becomes forgotten. Until I’m all there is.

Vicky has no interest in Brendon, even less now that she knows he and I are no longer involved. “What about Brendon?” I ask because it’s not like Vicky to be speechless. Her brows knit together in what seems to be incomprehension. A sudden chill runs down my spine. “Vicky, if you don’t tell me right now, I swear to _god_ I’ll –”

“I just got off the phone with my secretary back in New York. He had a message from Mark Reynolds, an A&R for Columbia.”

“Are we... changing labels?” I inquire, not understanding where she is going with this.

“Ryan, they want Brendon.” She looks at me with a dead serious expression on her face.

I frown. “What do you... I mean. What do you mean?”

She begins pacing nervously. “They asked if I was representing him. Am I? I hardly talk to the guy. I don’t have the time to represent him! I need to expand my management company, assign someone else to him. I need to do that. You could talk him into that, couldn’t you? Christ! I didn’t even listen to the demo! I thought it was you just spoiling your boy toy, and now it turns out that – that.” She laughs, shaking her head. “That Columbia wants him.”

I’ve remained frozen throughout her sudden rant. Brendon’s demo and the distribution of it have hardly crossed my mind since we split up and my album got released. And Brendon hasn’t asked about it so – Well no, if I tried to play the knight in shining armour, saying how I’d give his demo to all these big shots but then later wouldn’t give Brendon any news, he’d assume that nothing ever came of it. And even if it occurred to him to ask, he wouldn’t come to me. He probably thinks it was a failure, his demo rotting on someone’s desk under a pile of a hundred better ones.

Columbia doesn’t take on just anyone. Definitely not someone completely unknown like Brendon. No, first they expect you to create a buzz and get a following – Brendon has neither. Only talent. I knew that. I knew that, sure I – But that others noticed it too, I...

“What do you mean they want him?” I ask quietly.

Vicky’s eyes sparkle. “A record deal! Advertisement! You know they can make anyone into a star if they want to invest in it – look at Bruce Springsteen! Columbia put a shitload of money into him and he’s touring the world! Fuck, that could be Brendon.” She laughs like she can’t believe the next Bruce Springsteen has been under her nose all this time. I don’t. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Vicky’s getting excited now that it’s sinking in. I don’t think it’s sinking in with me.

Brendon’s not anything, really, is he? He’s been a busboy and a barber and a bartender and a roadie and a venue worker and god knows what else, but never a musician in his own right. He can play as well as me, sure, but he’s always been too preoccupied trying to feed himself to fully pursue a career in music. Because it takes arrogance to even think you can support yourself by playing guitar. Fuck, that takes arrogance. Brendon’s too good for that. I never was.

So maybe this is his chance to be something. He doesn’t know it yet, that he’ll become someone.

“Fuck, he’s getting a record deal,” I breathe out, the bottom of my stomach vanishing. “Well, it... It might not be a success, right? It might flop. He’s not _necessarily_ going to become this huge thing.”

“Oh, but he’s so cute,” Vicky enthuses. “I’ll clean him up a bit, and he’ll be _such_ a heartthrob. A pretty smile, nice lips, a cute butt... We only need to keep his sexuality under wraps. He could be one of those vague Bowie types where you don’t know _what_ he fucks. The mystique can be very sexy, you know. That can sell.” She’s staring into the distance as all of this happens before her eyes. “God, they won’t care what kind of music he’s playing if we sell it properly.” She grins. “Fantastic! This is fantastic! Goddamn, Ryan, I had no idea you had actual scouting skills.”

“Yeah.” I knew he was good. Of course I knew that. “Can I –” My throat feels oddly dry, and I swallow hard, start again. “Can I tell him? I’d like to be the one to tell him. If that’s okay.”

“Oh, yes, that’s why I told you first. He’ll listen to you, and he’ll need management now. You have power over him. God, we have to use that angle! We’ll advertise him as your discovery! Ryan Ross’s protégé!” She laughs again, in a better mood than I’ve seen her in months. “God, I need a cigarette and a good fuck, and tonight’ll be just about perfect.” I dig into my pocket for cigarettes, trying to be helpful. She scrunches her nose. “None of those menthol ones. Disgusting. You will talk to him soon, though, won’t you? Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” I say, and I can see that this displeases her. “Tomorrow,” I repeat, and she sighs slightly.

“Well. I still need a cigarette. A proper one.” She flashes a smile at me and walks out, leaving the door open. The chattering amplifies as she disappears into the crowd. I remain seated on the bed and feel... nothing. I’m happy for him. Surely. Surely I’m happy for him. Fucking happy.

He’ll be so happy when I tell him.

I get to be the knight in shining armour after all. He’ll know that. And then he’ll go off and tour the world.

He won’t need me.

I’ll lose him.

I toss the cigarette pack across the room but not even angrily. Out of frustration. For no reason.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It suddenly feels like the walls are caving in and oxygen is getting sucked out of the room, and the nausea returns. A headache too. Always these goddamned headaches.

I dig out the pill bottle that’s always safely in my jacket pocket these days, but it’s light, too light, and nothing rattles inside it. Great. Great. Fantastic.

My feet lead me out into the living room and quickly to the door, shaking my head at the people who try to stop me for a chat. Not now. Not right now.

The elevator doesn’t come soon enough – and I don’t trust those damn things anymore, not at all – and I take the stairs. A hotel security guard standing between the elevator and the door for the stairs recognises me, his eyes widening, but I leave him to his senseless job of guarding Floor 9 from fan invasions, to make sure no one uninvited comes to harass the famous people. My steps echo as I descend one floor at a time, faster, faster, until there are no more stairs.

The lobby is lavish and grand – they always are in hotels for the wealthy – but deserted at this time of night. A tired looking receptionist is handling a teenage girl as I walk to a cluster of couches in a darkened corner, wanting a few minutes of peace. When I get closer, I realise someone’s on my chosen couch already, smoking a cigarette with his shoulders hunched.

I flop down on the couch next to him. “Could I get a cigarette off you, man?” I ask, regretting having abandoned the menthol ones I stole from Jon’s parents’ house.

The kid – he is a kid, in his late teens – jumps and looks at me. His long, frizzy hair reminds me of Joe, but his curls are a lighter colour. “Ryan,” he says. Breathes out in a breathy way. His eyes widen and he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. He instantly looks over to the receptionist, and I follow his gaze to the girl. His mouth hangs open like he should yell out to her, but nothing comes out.

“Okay, do you have a _George_ Ross?” the girl is asking.

“No,” the receptionist sighs.

“George _Smith_?”

“No.”

“Ross Ryan?”

“No. For god’s sake, don’t you know the name of your father?”

The exclamation of ‘he’s here!’ seems to have died in the kid’s throat. “Ah,” I say, leaning into the couch to hide in the shadow a bit better. “Now that’s a bit awkward.” I hold out my palm, and the kid stares in some kind of shock before he kicks into motion and passes me a cigarette out of the pack he has in his breast pocket. “Do I get a light?” I ask once the cigarette’s snugly between my lips.

“YeahofcourseRyansurething. Sorry. Sorry, that was so rude. Fuck, sorry.”

I take his lighter and use it as he keeps apologising, looking more horrified by the second.

“Don’t fret it,” I tell him, and he nods and apologises again before catching himself. He has the sense to laugh embarrassedly.

“I-I’ve been to b-both of your Chicago shows, and we were in New York, I don’t- I don’t suppose you recognise me, you signed an album for me once back in -73, I had different hair then, it was more like, like floppy, I guess, but hair spray, that does wonders and god, so many questions I’ve always wanted to ask you!” He offers his hand, hope shining in his eyes. “I’m Sisky!”

I take it. “Ryan.”

“Trust me, I know who you are!” he says, still clearly disbelievingly. “You’re a poet. You are. I wanted to- And the new album, it’s just so _raw_. When I first heard you sing, ‘We’re still in hiding, the only place you’ll ever let us know’, and the energy, the anger, I just – God, I was speechless. I _am_ speechless. Fuck.” He rubs his face quickly.

I forget to smoke my cigarette. “Well, since you know him so well,” I say, wanting to add the kid’s name but having forgotten it already, “do you think George Smith would... sabotage the dream of someone he deeply cared about?”

He blinks. “But why would he – you do that?”

“Out of selfishness.”

“No. No, of course not,” he hurries out, suddenly worked up.

“Out of fear.”

“He doesn’t fear anything. He doe – _You_ don’t fear anything. Don’t you know who you are?” He sounds astonished.

I look toward the girl on the counter, the receptionist now threatening to call security if she doesn’t remove herself from the premises. “I’m Boyd Castro.” I rub my nose quickly. “Thanks for the cigarette, kid.”

He stares at me with big eyes as I get up and head out. “Anytime.”

* * *

“He wants you. He does, trust me.”

“Yeah, the way he keeps away from me clearly shows that,” I reply tiredly. Audrey’s job is to make me feel better, so she’d probably say anything at this point to achieve said effect. We stare at the ceiling as we lie on the hotel bed together, not having really started the day properly yet. A half-eaten croissant is on the nightstand from a failed effort to have breakfast. We’re both in our underwear and still mostly sleepy.

“He’s jealous,” she says, and I snort. “Come on, at Jon’s parents’ house? He was jealous. Him and I are civil enough because we have blackmail material on each other, but trust me, Brendon is not my fan when he sees us together. I know relationship games. He’s playing you.”

“Playing me?”

“Juxtaposing you and Shane, making lists of pros and cons. He can’t just surrender.” She laughs. “No, no, that’d spoil it. He’s testing you. You gotta stay still, and that’s it. He’ll fall into your arms soon enough.”

“Fantastic. Do nothing. That’s great advice.” I sigh heavily. “But then what? He falls into my arms, and then what? Do you know how many good musician friends I’ve got? None. None because successful musicians are too fucking busy.”

She remains quiet for a while, humming. “Well, maybe he could tour with you. Be your support act. Come on, it’s a record deal, not a deportation.” She tilts her head my way, her hair falling on the pillow. “And you forget that he wants you around as much as you want him. You’d find ways to be together.”

“In our little fantasy world that doesn’t exist,” I say because I need to remain cynical at this point. Pretend I am cynical. How can one smile from him mean so much, fill me with so much hope? He’ll love me for getting him a record deal. Sure. Maybe I should see it as a good thing, as yet another thing I’ve done for him that Shane hasn’t. And then what Vicky said about Brendon’s sexuality, well, Shane would have to be kept secret. How would that go down? Would that be the last nail on their coffin? Maybe the record deal is a good thing. Maybe it can be a good thing. And then sure, Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys will whisk him on tour, and it’ll be flashing lights and us laughing in the backs of limos as far as the eye can see.

But a little something called life experience tells me that it won’t end up that way.

It’s an ugly business. He’s led an ugly life, so he’ll probably be okay. He’s not blue-eyed.

And he deserves a break. He does. So Audrey’s right. I can turn it into a victory, and someone from Vicky’s company will manage him, and we can keep him close and grateful and ours. And he’ll smile at me with warmth in his gaze, and I will fight my way through one inch at a time, until there is no contest between me and Shane, until the day comes when I’m the obvious choice.

“Just imagine that big, fat smile on his oversized lips when you tell him,” Audrey says. “He’s won the goddamned lottery thanks to you, so just remind him of the fact that you’re his most powerful friend. He’s in eternal gratitude to you now.”

“I haven’t thought of it like that.”

“You should, so smile already.” She pokes my bare side, and I swat her hand away, laughing. She grins. “There we go. That’s a smile.” She cranes her neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. “Got two hours before my bus leaves. Don’t want to go, really.”

“Then don’t.”

“I have to. Took off without saying anything. It just got a bit too much, real life, and now I’ve got one pissed off husband and a needy seven-month-old wondering where the fuck I am.” She sighs and burrows into the sheets slightly. I hide my surprise. “But I like this. Pretending. That’s what I always liked about this. The clinical smell of hotel sheets and the bright, bright lights of the stage.”

I reach out to touch her hair, my fingers slowly carding through the pink locks. I don’t ask any questions. We musicians are always selfish that way – only interested in ourselves. She knows that. That was the attraction in the first place, a chance to forget herself.

She props herself on one elbow. She’s got mascara stains on her cheeks, little black flecks. She lifts her eyebrows. “You want a blowjob, at least?”

I stop to consider this. “Sure. That’d be nice.”

She tucks hair behind her ears and smirks. “We’ll call it a kiss goodbye.”


	4. Columbia Dreams/Codeine Visions

Our jet is lost. Not sure how that can happen – it was meant to be in Hangar D, but it’s not. Our pilots are none the wiser, and Vicky is busy yelling at the staff of the private airport. Most of us are slung on the hard seats of the small waiting room, dust flakes drifting in the air as sunlight comes through the dirty windows. We’re sleep deprived and hungover, Greta and Butcher leaning on each other as they sleep in the corner. The air is stale and somehow too warm to breathe.

“Coffee would be great,” Gabe croaks from beside me. He sounds like Satan’s been fucking his mouth all night. He’s got sunglasses on because apparently the light hurts his eyes.

“Vicky!” I call out, causing Gabe to flinch. “Can we get coffee?”

The airport worker she’s talking to looks over her shoulder. “There’s fresh coffee in the office.” He motions to a door with slated venetian blinds over the window. He doesn’t seem very bothered about the fact that his staff has misplaced our fucking plane. We only need to get to Florida. We’re only number one now. No big deal.

“Office... too far... away,” Gabe groans, reaching out pathetically and then slumping back in his seat.

“You sad fuck.”

“Ryan. Ryan, ayuda, por favor. Necesito café.” He pushes closer and nuzzles my shoulder. “I’ll love you _forever_.” He smells of old booze, cigarettes and some girl’s perfume.

“I thought you already did.”

“I’ll love you _more_.”

“Unlikely.”

“I will. I really will.” He looks up at me with plate-sized eyes, lower lip jutted out. I sigh as I push him off and stand up, and he makes a little purring sound like he’s now overly pleased. He takes the opportunity to lie down on the seats, adjusting the butterfly collar of his shirt before stretching out, as if to make sure he looks good like this too.

I cross the room quietly so as not to wake up anyone. Vicky is hissing that the staff better move the other plane, then, if it’s in the way of ours.

The office is small and cluttered, and I go straight for the old sixties coffee machine on the corner table next to a half-finished airplane model. I open the cupboards to find a mug or a glass since we’re not being picky.

“You can rinse mine.”

I look over my shoulder to find Brendon sitting by a small desk. He’s extending a white mug with a cartoon kitten on it, his feet propped up on the paperwork on the desk. He’s got a magazine in his lap, and it looks like I’ve walked in on his coffee break. He’s smiling, though. Smiling.

“Thought you went for a walk with Cassie and Jon,” I say, as if to explain why I am in the same room with him. Not on purpose – pure accident. I take the mug from him in any case.

“Was going to but then I found this.” He lifts the aviation magazine, the cover showing a bikini-wearing woman posing in front of an airplane. “It’s fascinating stuff. About, like, planes.”

“I’m endlessly intrigued,” I say as I fill up the mug with lukewarm coffee, and he chuckles. Making him smile always feels like a small victory.

He goes back to flipping the pages, and some of the tension in the air has lifted. “So what did you get up to last night? You disappeared from the party pretty early on.”

“I went for a walk,” I say honestly, although I don’t want to think about it because then I – Yeah. Yeah, too late now because it’s now on my mind: his record deal that he is clueless to. I just haven’t had the chance to tell him yet. I’ve been busy with other things.

“A walk by yourself?” he asks, not looking up from the magazine.

“By myself.”

He makes a humming sound, but then seems to get bored of the magazine and tosses it on the table. “And Audrey left this morning, then?” He looks inquisitive, scratching himself behind the ear as his eyebrows arch in question.

“She did. Patrick and Gabe will miss her for sure.” Vicky or Cassie certainly won’t. Brendon’s clearly checking up on me, but now is the wrong time to be doing it. I clear my throat slightly. “Anyway, the coffee’s getting cold, so –”

“Are you okay?” he asks, frowning. Of course I am. I am so okay.

“Yeah, man. Groovy. Just a bit tired.”

He doesn’t look convinced. He can’t read me that well, can he?

Audrey said that Brendon’s weighing the pros and cons. A record deal is a pro. Certainly. But I just need to figure out how to word it, just need some more time to process the thought myself. I promised I’d do it today, but there still are eleven hours to go. Maybe tonight when we get to Tampa – we’re not doing a show there until tomorrow, so we’ll have more time. I just need more time.

“You’re not sleeping well, are you?” he asks in this knowing tone, quickly getting up from his seat. “Here, sit down for a while.” He picks up papers that are piled up on the other chair, motioning for me to sit. I reluctantly obey because he’ll know something’s wrong if I run for it.

“I’m sleeping here and there,” I say, protesting slightly.

He sits back down, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah? Because you don’t look it.” There’s sincere concern on his face that feels unbearable to handle.

“So you’re saying that I look like shit.”

“No, you look good. Of course you do. Just unsettled.” And getting more and more unsettled. What does ‘of course’ mean? Because I think he always looks good. Always. When he’s exhausted with reddened eyes, when he hasn’t showered in four days and his hair is greasy, and when he’s walking away from me. Of course he looks good. “If it makes you feel any better, you seem to be handling touring a lot better than you did last time.” He smiles benignly.

“Not plotting Joe’s murder probably does help.”

He laughs at my stupid joke, even though we both know it was a lame comeback. And I am still kind of planning Joe’s murder – seeing that asshole’s face on the covers of music magazines with his Menace glam rock band makes me kind of homicidal.

“So it’s the touring that’s getting to you?”

I shrug. Partly. I don’t exactly thrive on this. It’s stressful and exhausting and never-ending, but I’m surviving. Partly the tour is getting to me, but for the most part it’s him. Of course it’s him, and not necessarily even because of us. “It’s just not an ideal life, is it?” I ask. “Being a professional musician.”

“Money, fame... Yeah, must be horrible.” He’s smirking, though.

“Come on, you’ve seen what it’s really like. Since day one you saw through all the flashing lights. It’s artificial. The hotels and the gift baskets and the champagne and the limousines... The girls,” I add, and he nods in a ‘well, that’s true’ kind of way. “Look at where we are.” I motion around the tiny office, stuck waiting for our plane as the heat glues our shirts to our skins, the electric fan in the corner covered by dust like it broke five years ago. What’s glorious about this? What’s rock ‘n roll about any of this? “There are easier, more genuine ways to make a living. I think so, anyway. I only do this because it’s the only thing I know.”

“I think it’s pretty great,” he says, and something in me sinks. “A new city every night, the open road... It’s exciting. There’s this buzz in the air. Everyone’s excited to see you play, to hear you sing all the songs... Well. Almost all of the songs.” He flashes a nervous smile at me. I still won’t play 708. I never will. I wonder what he’s dissected from its lyrics, if he’s slowly realising that it’s not exaggeration. I’ll never forget the night I wrote it, the sickening disappointment and loss swirling in my stomach. Knowing he was sleeping on our hotel bed, unaware that I had left. “Trust me, this beats all the shitty jobs I’ve ever had. You’re lucky.”

“So you’d want this life?”

“If I could. If I had the talent.” He rolls his eyes at his own words apologetically, but he doesn’t sound like a dreamer. He doesn’t even know that his dream has become something tangible.

I was hoping that The Followers was a warning sign for the shit that fame does to people. I hoped that I was a warning sign for him.

“There is a rootless feeling to it all, though,” he then amends. “Forgetting what city you’re in, never being home. Not having a home. I’ve had that before. Well, _you_ know I have.” He looks at me like he and I share some kind of an understanding. “It’s sad, sometimes. Like, I see you in a crowded room, and all of these people are queuing up to talk to you, and... I don’t know. You look lonely. You never laugh the way I’ve fe – seen you laugh.” He corrects himself a second too late. My chest feels empty, a cavity in it.

“So maybe it’s not the lifestyle that’s fucked up. Maybe it’s just me,” I suggest. Joe thrives on this kind of a life, so did Brent. A lot of people do. Spencer didn’t. I never have either although I wouldn’t let it go. No. It’s better to be influential and miserable than to be some average Joe who never did anything, didn’t know anyone, and led a remarkably insignificant life. Brendon might be better suited for this kind of a ride than I am. He’s seen its ugly sides and is still here, is saying he can still see the appeal of it.

Maybe I could offer to play on his record, say it was a label decision, to create some buzz by having me on his album, or – or then, I don’t know, I could write a few songs for him to play. Make Vicky talk to Atlantic, steal him onto our label from Columbia.

It doesn’t mean we have to go our separate ways.

He might not even want the record deal. Right? He might not want it.

I can’t sleep. I walked around Chicago until sunrise, then found Audrey in my bed. I won’t be able to sleep as long as this is eating me up inside.

“I need to tell you something,” I start slowly. He looks concerned, but it’s not about me or my sleeping habits or the lack thereof. “Some news. Although you should remember how fickle the music industry is so no one knows what _actually_ happens until it really happens, but...” I place the kitten mug on the table. He seems confused. I wring my hands, trying to find a way to word it properly. “Vicky just got a call from this guy, works for this label. He’d heard your demo, one of the ones I passed on. He wants to talk to you.”

Brendon blinks. “What?”

“I don’t know. I mean, wanting to talk is hardly a promise of anything, is it? And you know labels are bitches. They’re always breathing down your neck, wanting you to change things. We had to go back to the studio for _Boneless_ to put a hit on it. Fucking cunts,” I murmur, but I clearly haven’t distracted him enough. His eyes are wide, and he’s paled. “It might not amount to anything,” I hurry to say. “Just keep that in mind.”

“...A label guy wants to talk to me?” he clarifies. “To me? I mean, it’s not some mess up, is it? He really heard _my_ demo and wants to talk?”

Unfortunately.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes out in astonishment, standing up quickly. The chair legs screech against the floor. He holds a hand over his mouth, then it moves to his hair, his t-shirt lifting, exposing a strip of pale stomach with dark hair cutting across it, and I try not to notice it but I do. He lets out a strangled sound of shock and begins to pace. “What label?”

“They’re all the same, aren’t they?”

“ _Ryan_.”

I hang my head. “Columbia.”

He stops. “What? Did you just- Columbia? _Columbia_ Columbia?” His disbelief is obvious. I nod my head. Not some small label either, of course not, but one of the biggest, most powerful labels in North America. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m going to pass out. I’m going to faint. I see black. It’s getting black!”

Alarmed, I stand up quickly, ready to make him sit down. When my hands land on his shoulders, however, I’m startled when he steps in and hugs me tightly. “Oh god, oh god,” he repeats, wrapping his arms around me. And then, “Fuck!” He laughs, sounding slightly hysterical.

“What did I tell you about not getting carried away with it?” I ask quietly, his warmth not only pressed against me but penetrating, getting in deeper, washing over me. His warmth and his touch, things no longer mine. I hug him back, trying not to be greedy about it. Trying to hold on.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding choked up. “Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, I – God, Ryan, thank you.” He pulls back, eyes shining, and it’s not often that anyone gets to see him happy like this. It’s contagious. He laughs, blinking too much, and he quickly wipes his eyes. He looks slightly embarrassed for getting so emotional. He is the most perfect definition of beauty I have ever seen.

I pull him back into my arms. He hugs me just as tightly as he did before. I kiss his temple briefly and without thinking, and it’s only when he doesn’t shove me back that I realise that he might have done just that. He laughs against my neck, repeating “fuck, fuck, fuck,” and I smile against his hair. _I_ did this for him.

“You’ll come with me, right?” he asks, voice rushed. “To this meeting thing.”

“Of course,” I promise instantly. Of course. Knowing the music business, insider information, don’t want him to get screwed over. He needs me. Audrey said that he might.

He needs me.

“Thank you,” he says again, sounding like he means it as we keep the tight embrace. Heavy weight rolls off of me the longer the hug lingers – past acceptable, justifiable – until we just stand there because it feels good. And right. The scent of hotel shampoo in his hair, the hot air bringing out a smell of slight sweat on his skin. He’s still thrumming, adrenalin, shock, and I hold him until he calms down, until nothing is left except his golden smile and gratitude.

Anything for you, kid. Anything.

With me on the side.

* * *

The way he clings onto Shane is sickening. The way Shane clings onto him is just as bad. They’re happy, I get it, happy for Brendon and the interest Columbia has now shown in him. But the way they keep touching each other is vile.

The restaurant is a public place, and we’re scattered to seven different tables: the band, the film crew, the techs. A night off, live a little. Celebrate Brendon a little because everyone knows the news by now. Champagne for all. Limos from our hotel in Tampa – that hotel, that goddamned – to Madeira Beach. What the hell – it was only an hour to the Gulf of Mexico, anyway. Shrimp cocktails to start with and plenty of wine for all.

Vicky’s trying to woo him. Yeah, Brendon’s interesting now. Only now.

I’ve left the company and settled at the bar, drinking whisky and nibbling on the salty peanuts. I keep looking over to the table where Brendon is, how Shane casually has his hand on the back of Brendon’s neck even as he’s talking to Cassie across the table. Vicky keeps ordering more booze. She isn’t even concerned about me or their public displays of affection.

I said that I wanted to work on some new lyrics. They let me be as they think I’m working.

Mostly the restaurant is empty. It’s getting late. The staff will let us stay, though, the owner doting on us and running around to get whatever we want. We saw the sunset through the window earlier, the sun sinking into the sea. The restaurant’s right at the beach.

This was meant to be my victory. My day of glory.

Not Shane’s who has never supported Brendon’s music. Shane’s career came first: Shane’s art and Shane’s photography and Shane’s documentary, Shane, Shane, Shane. Never even made it to Brendon’s open mic nights, did he?

And now he’s the proud boyfriend.

The two seem to have forgotten all the previous fights and disagreements. I crunch on peanuts with the force of my teeth, my sharp canines. Oh, Shane is such a proud partner or boyfriend or fool. That excited look on his face. Slight astonishment. Yeah, smile while you can, before Vicky tells you that you and your sexuality are going underground.

This wasn’t meant to bring them together.

I squeeze my whisky glass too tight. Stop it. Don’t be so obvious.

I smoke heavily, but don’t touch the whisky too much. I don’t want to cause a scene. I made some calls before we left Chicago, though – a fresh batch of codeine pills was waiting for me at the hotel reception. They hit me hard when I drink too much.

Let’s try not to drink too much.

He laughs. They laugh. They have moved their chairs closer to one another’s. Accidentally, I tell myself. By pure, pure accident. They don’t notice me.

“Top me off,” I tell the bartender, and he does. I drink down the sixteen-year-old golden liquid and get up.

Enough’s enough, Ross.

I walk out of the restaurant, still smoking, my shoulders hunched. I cross the parking lot, to the steps that lead down onto the beach. Palm trees sway in the wind. Someone’s walking their dog in the distance. It’s not New York. It most certainly isn’t New York.

Halfway down to the sea, I sit down on the sand. The wind ruffles my hair softly. I swallow two codeine pills, absently rubbing my left elbow. It’ll be okay. It won’t be too bad.

“Fuck this,” I sigh heavily and drop onto my back, my knees bent as my shoes dig into the sand. The ocean keeps breathing, I hear it touching the shore. Smoke swirls from my glowing cigarette tip into the sky, against the dark blue of it where stars are twinkling brightly. Thousands and thousands of light years away... I remember when Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon. I was packing. I didn’t go to my high school graduation but stayed in my room, listening to the new album of another Neil and figuring out what to take with me now that Spencer and I were taking off. We hitch-hiked across America, and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. That big, pale thing above my head. It’s far away. It’s damn far away. Neil Young kept singing in my head. We travelled the same length, Neil and Neil and I.

This record deal was a small step for me, but a giant leap for Brendon. I saw us together, chasing the moonlight.

So much for that.

I’ll go to that meeting with him. I’ll hold his hand. And then I’ll be right back here, at square one, wondering how these things manage to backfire on me.

I’m getting tired of being so fucking politically correct. Of waiting.

I used to just fucking take him. No questions asked. No need for permission. I had him wrapped around my finger. And –

“So where are you right now?”

I look up, seeing his silhouette upside down. His tone is playful: our old ‘where are you supposed to be right now?’ game to see which one of us lied better.

“I’m lying on the sand and smoking.” I inhale deep and exhale further smoke. “Where are you?”

“On the phone to William to tell him about the meeting. You know he’d freak out so it’ll be a lengthy phone call. They were kind enough to let me use the phone in the office.” He walks closer and sits on the sand next to me. I try to assess the situation: he takes walks with me, he sits me down for coffee with him, he follows me out onto the beach... It’s a change from him avoiding me like the plague or temptation or the thing that ruins his life and fucks him up. He’s seeking me out.

“Where are you really, though?” I ask, tone challenging.

“Out on the beach with Ryan Ross, who discovered me. Vicky’s got this whole advertising campaign planned,” he chuckles before he shivers slightly. It’s not cold by any means, but he’s only wearing a blue t-shirt that blends with the sky. “All the attention got a bit overwhelming back there.”

If he gets a record deal, he better get used to the attention.

He lies down next to me, his arm briefly brushing mine. He’ll get sand in his hair, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand reaches out expectantly, and I pass him the cigarette. I look at the stars. He points up. “That one over there is Gemini.”

“Where?”

“That one.” He shuffles closer until our heads are touching. I squint and follow the angle of his finger.

“Oh yeah.”

“I don’t know how exactly it’s meant to look like twins.”

“If you look at it sideways, it does,” I say, leaning my head to the side. “Arms, two pairs of legs... See? There.” I draw lines into the air.

He is also tilting his head. “Yeah, I kind of see it now.”

“You know how they got up there?” I ask him, feeling the shake of his head against my own. “The twins were Castor and Pollux. They had the same mother, but different fathers. Don’t ask me how,” I add when he draws in a breath like he’s about to object. “It’s Greek mythology, anything’s possible. But because of this, only Pollux was immortal. Castor was a mere human. They were inseparable, but then Castor died in battle. Pollux couldn’t deal with the loss of his twin, and so he offered his immortality, was willing to give it up. A compromise was come to: one day Pollux would be on Mount Olympus and Castor would be in Hades, and the next day the other way around. Immortal but never together. Well. That’s one of the sadder versions. They also say that Zeus took pity on them and made them stars in the sky, to be immortal together for all times.” I trace the invisible lines of the constellation with my fingers. “And there they still are.”

“I think I like the second version better,” he says quietly, passing the cigarette back.

“I think I like the first.”

He breathes evenly in the dark. We hear female laughter from a distance, maybe the parking lot or somewhere along the beach. Happy and faraway. A dog barks.

“I’ve got one,” he then says, leaning in again and pointing at the sky. “A Gibson’s Flying V. There’s the guitar neck, and there’s the body.”

“I see it. What’s it called?”

“The Guitar constellation. Obviously.”

“Well, obviously.”

He laughs softly. I take a final drag of the cigarette and flick it away into the dark. “I got one too,” I say. “See those four stars there that kind of form a line? That’s the Line constellation.”

“Oh wow. You’re so knowledgeable.”

“It’s true. I am.”

“Are you sure that’s the Line constellation, though? See, if you continue it there, like this, and it curves and comes back down...” He shows what he means, and I nod, humming. “Well. That just looks like someone’s dick, doesn’t it?”

“Trust you to find a cock up there.”

“That’s the Penis constellation.”

“Your personal favourite, I take it?”

“Depends on who it’s attached to,” he muses in a mock serious voice. I snort and give his shoulder a gentle shove. He snickers. Fucking kid.

He takes a hold of my hand before I can pull it back, his fingers lacing with mine. He doesn’t look at me but keeps gazing upwards, our hands settling on his stomach.

A sudden tranquillity and awareness stir up in me. Perfect ease and unbearable tension at the same time. He’s fucking with my head. His thumb slowly brushes over my knuckles, his index finger drawing circles onto my palm, and he’s fucking with my head.

“I just wanted to say thank you. About the meeting with Columbia.”

“I only passed your demo along. It’s all you from there.” Our hands rise and fall with his even breaths. He seems comfortable like this, at ease. My mind races. “Are we leaving any time soon? Back to Tampa and the hotel.”

“Ah. The... hotel.”

“What?” I ask because he’s got this ominous tone to his words.

“We’ve stayed there before. On The Followers tour. A bit odd.”

“Why?” I tilt my head to the side to see his profile. “Because it’s the first place we ever fucked?”

“Well... yes, actually.” He laughs nervously. I recognised the place the second we walked in, a hundred memories suddenly feeling as recent as yesterday. We’re not on the same floor, not in the same room, but Brendon remembers a lot more than he’s letting on. I hoped that he recognised it too – remembers us making out in the corridor, barely making it to the bed in his and William’s room. Fuck, I had _no_ idea what I was doing, but I got him off, I fucked him well. Hasty and clumsy and needy. Not knowing any of the little things that make him tick, not behind refined in the art of fucking men at all, but it was all the more intense because of it. Every touch a discovery.

I’m not surprised that it’s on his mind. It is on mine. He knows our anniversary, and he knows the sightseeing spots in the history of us. I just thought he’d deny it, the way he has all this time.

“I just thought –” he begins but then stops. “God, I don’t know.” A helpless laugh. “Too many memories, you know? And comparing to then and now, it’s all so different. We’re really different.” He exhales steadily. “We were young. I think we were both angry with the world back then. Maybe that’s why we got along.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m still angry.”

He laughs. I’ll say anything to make him laugh.

“Two things happened in that hotel,” I reflect quietly. “One – I was inside you for the first time. That changed my life.” The steady up and down of his breathing stops. “And two – I watched that anchorwoman kill herself.”

His fingers stop rubbing my hand. He moves to lie on his side, leaning on one elbow that digs into the sand. He doesn’t let go of my hand. He looks surprised and solemn. “You never told me that.”

“The two things aren’t related. Not really. But I connect them.” I let myself reach out to touch his hair, feeling grains of sand falling as I card through the locks. “Out of the two, I prefer the memory of your face when you came.”

“How fucking romantic,” he whispers. There’s a moment, a lull, a sharp tug in my stomach. His hand slides over my mid-section, and my fingers twist in the hair at the back of his head. His eyes meet mine and then drop onto my lips. Repeat history. Quickened heart beats. A rush of blood. Be mine, be mine. He swallows hard, breathing shallow. Come on, give up already. “I...”

“Don’t think about it,” I say quietly, gently pulling him down. Don’t. Just let it happen, for the tide to come and take us away. It’s just a kiss. Now when has that ever gotten us fucked?

He stops mid-movement of leaning down. His hand, which has slid down to curl around my hip, feels over my pocket. His eyebrows knit together. A small rattling sounds louder. The pills.

I freeze. Fuck.

His agile fingers slip into my pocket before I can stop him, and then the pill bottle is in his hand. He stares at it unblinkingly. “What are these?” His voice is sharp and focused, none of the previous soft playfulness in it, with none of the magic I just managed to perform on him.

“Vitamins.”

I try to reach for the bottle, but he moves to sit on his knees, the frown not going anywhere. He’s examining the label carefully – it’s prescribed to a Mrs. Anne Brown, if my memory doesn’t fail me.

“What’s codeine?”

“It’s a vitamin. A type of vitamin.”

He looks me square in the eye. His lips form a thin line. “I don’t believe you.”

He stands up swiftly, and I am left scrambling up to my feet, trying to follow him. “What exactly are you doing?” I call after him.

“Confiscating these until I find out what the fuck they are!” he replies angrily. I stop, watching him storm back to the parking lot. He climbs the steps two at a time, my pills firmly in his grip.

Well, fuck. There he fucking goes, then.

* * *

I don’t sleep well that night, but it’s not because of Brendon and his possession of my pills. I’ll tell him something, anything, I’ll _swear_ and he’ll believe me. I wouldn’t lie, would I?

It’s the headache that keeps me up. I listen to night time radio and stare at the ceiling: _Crimson Gone_ comes on at quarter to two. _Miranda’s Dream_ comes on at four. In this damn hotel, in some other room – smaller, not grand like this one – I tasted his flesh for the first time. I try to jerk off to the memory of it, but then the headache comes back, and I give up in my efforts. I try reading a book. Formulate what I’ll say to Brendon come breakfast, because really, him _stealing_ my property is starting to get less funny. I need those pills. It could be life-threatening not to be taking them regularly – he can’t know that.

What a fucking arrogant prick.

But no, I have to be nice about it. Ask nicely. Kindly. Firmly. Calmly.

If he shows those pills to Vicky, I’m fucked. No. He wouldn’t. Would he?

I keep tapping my thighs nervously, smoking chronically. I don’t feel too good at all. What’s his room number? No idea. Cuddling there with Shane, together with their Columbia dreams.

There’s no rush.

No rush.

I’m calm.

I try to get back to bed around six o’clock, slipping under the covers. The headache has faded, but it’s not defeated. I feel it in the back of my head, throbbing, waiting for its time. Sneaky bastard. And I manage to fall asleep, clearly I do, because the next thing I know is a firm knock on my door. I know that knock – it’s Vicky’s ‘you better be up or else’ knock. I groan and roll out of bed, pulling my briefs up just in case so that Vicky doesn’t get any ideas. I must have slept in, I must have –

The alarm clock on the nightstand shows that it’s ten to seven. Who does Vicky think she is, my fucking master? I’ll throw a Spartacus on her ass. She should know that I do nothing before noon.

I pad to the door sleepily, already irritated. Not my ideal way to start a day. “Alright, alright,” I bark when her knocking persists. “Am I late for something?” I ask, opening the door.

But it’s Brendon who pushes the door open the rest of the way and walks straight past me. “Morning to you too?” I frown. He’s fully dressed and seemingly alert – what on earth has he been doing this morning? He stops and looks around, and then enters to the bathroom. I push the door closed uncertainly. Maybe he really needs to piss?

Then I remember that he has my pills. I quickly follow him but stop at the door. He’s going through my toiletries bag that’s on the counter. “What are you doing?” I ask in confusion.

“Making sure you have no more of these,” he says, pulling the orange bottle out of his pocket and continuing on in his raid.

My insides clench at the sight of the pills. Fuck, I need those. “My vitamins. Can I have them back now?”

“Vitamins?” he repeats, stopping in his inspection. It’s only when our eyes meet that I realise how furious he looks. I almost do a double take. “You and your fucking vitamins!” he all but shouts. “I don’t –” He stops to quote the description that he clearly knows by heart. “‘Take every four to six hours as needed.’ That’d be, what? A maximum of six a day? And how many of these are you popping?” The obvious despise in his eyes renders me speechless. “You’re stupid. You’re so fucking stupid!”

Suddenly, he’s twisted off the cork and has tipped the bottle over the toilet. “What are you –” Dozens of small pills pour out in a sudden shower. I stare in horror.

“Back off!” he yells and holds out his hand when I try to intervene.

“Have you lost it?!” I yell angrily, an ache in me spreading as the last ones drop into the bowl. His hand reaches for the lever. “No! Don’t you fucking dare!” His hand doesn’t even hesitate, and the toilet flushes itself. He steps out of the way just in time as I rush over, but nothing of my pills remains. My stomach drops as I watch the water swirling. No, no, no, no, nononono. “Christ, Brendon, why did you do that?!”

“Why would _you_ do that?!” he counters, more angry than I’ve ever seen him, and I’ve _definitely_ seen him angry. “Are you that desperate to die young?!”

“You don’t even know what they are!” I argue, trying to think of a medical condition he doesn’t know of, maybe I’ve got cancer? No, too depressing, maybe –

“I found out, trust me. Codeine. Painkillers. Did you know that that shit can be fucking addictive?! That you can overdose on them, that they’re fucking dangerous when mixed with alcohol, that –”

“But they make me feel better!” I snap before I can stop myself. It doesn’t appease the thunder in his eyes, but he fucking threw them away and now they’re _gone_ , and it takes hassle to organise these things, and who do I know in Tampa? Well, Big Keith, our drum tech from ’72, yeah, he could sort it out, but fuck. Fuck. Fucking fucker. “They make me numb,” I try to explain desperately. It’s not like it’s a problem. It’s not. And I don’t take them for the hell of it either. “It’s just that – My left arm never healed from the bus crash properly, alright? It gets sore.” I touch my left elbow without meaning to. “I took codeine to get me through recording and now I take it to get through touring. They’re just painkillers. I need them.”

“You don’t need them.”

“I do!”

“No –”

“I don’t have to fucking feel when I take them! And you just flushed them down, like it’s _any_ of your fucking business!” I yell, and the anger in my words surprises me too.

His hands have curled into fists. “You don’t want to feel.” He shakes his head. “You don’t want to fucking feel. You fucking selfish _prick_. What about me? Huh? What about how _I’ll_ feel on the day we find you dead on a hotel bed, having overdosed on your innocent pills and a bottle of whisky?! You don’t – You don’t stop to think, Ryan! It’s always about you, and you don’t understand how this shit affects me, and I _can’t_ spend my days terrified that you’ll do something stupid, because you would! Christ, I know that you would!”

“Bren,” I manage, trying to interrupt him.

“Shut up!” He throws the pill bottle across the room in magnified anger.

I shut up. I feel like I’ve just been told that I’ve been a bad, bad dog. I didn’t mean to – It’s just something I did, I didn’t expect it to – for _him_ to. It wasn’t meant to be a big deal.

But it is. To him.

“You’re done here! No more of this shit!” he yells, finger pointed at me, and then he seems to run out of breath. His brows knit together as his shoulders drop. He hasn’t slept. I notice it then, the bags under his eyes, how exhausted he seems. He turns his back on me, and I watch the line of his shoulders, startled when he seems to shiver. “What would I do if something happened to you?” he asks quietly. “Ryan, what would I _do_?”

“Hey,” I whisper, trying to sound soothing as my insides ache. “C’mere.” I press a hand on his shoulder, but he tries to shrug me off. “Bren, come on.” I apply more pressure, and he turns around and buries himself in my embrace. He’s shivering as I wrap my arms around him, his warmth pressed against my bare chest. “Hey, I’m right here, alright?” He’s still breathing fast. I gently rub the back of his neck, my words whispered against his hair. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I breathe him in, his scent, take in the way he’s wrapped his arms around my waist and is burrowing into me. “I would never do that to you. Bren, I would _never_.” Lying pale and stiff on a hotel bed, my eyes staring at nothing. It’s happened to too many to count, people I’ve known. No. No, that’s not what I want. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I promise him, and he laughs, but it’s a small, scared laugh. I didn’t mean to scare him. I have. His blunt fingernails dig into my lower back as he holds me tightly. My heart feels heavy. “I’ll stop. Won’t take them anymore.” I don’t even have to think about it. “I promise.”

“Do you really?”

“Of course I do.”

His nose presses against my jaw, his lips brushing against my Adam’s apple. “You don’t know how scared I get.”

“No. No, I don’t,” I admit because the feeling of surprise lingers. That he cares this much. I always wanted him to, but I didn’t know. “It’s alright now.” My head presses against his, tilting downwards. “We’ll be okay.”

My lips find his. Soft. Tentative. He lets out an uneven breath. Blinks, eyes wide. A spark runs through me, as strong as it ever has been. He was going to let me kiss him last night, I know it. And now we’re here again, far too close for two friends or former lovers, let alone for two men. And I kiss him because there is no way I cannot.

His lower lip slips between mine as I press our mouths together. He doesn’t pull back. Instead he lets out this tiny sound, like a quiet murmur of pleasure, a gasp. Hot fire erupts inside, my guts twisting painfully with yearning. His skin is addictive, his touch, his love. I need addictions. I couldn’t have him. I found a substitute. It’s not unheard of.

But if he lets me back in, then it’ll only be an ugly memory. I promise. I swear. Because I don’t manage without it, without him. I’m just lost. Angry. Confused. Like an animal forced to leave its turf, thrown into some unknown land, disorientated. I’m not me without him.

I kiss him with clear intent, needing to get closer. His lips part under pressure, and our tongues slowly brush together, wet and hot. He breathes out unevenly, hesitating. I kiss harder, trying to push him over, to make him lose his balance. He bends. He breaks. He pushes closer, opening up further. We kiss fervently, tracing a taste that is so familiar that we could never forget even if we wanted to. My hands move up to his hair, pulling just the way he likes it. He hisses and sucks on my lower lip. It goes straight to my groin. My fingers twist around the strands of his hair, pulling, making him expose his neck as his head turns. My mouth moves to his jaw and his neck, and he breathes hard, letting me. I kiss the vein running on his neck, feeling the fast pulse of it. His stubble scratches my nose, and I feel driven insane by my desire for him.

I push my hips against his. He loses his breath from the contact. His fingers dig into my shoulders. “Stop,” he breathes out. I look him in the eye – his blown pupils, fuck – and lean in closer to kiss him despite the warning. “ _Stop_ ,” he repeats, but he’s not exactly trying to push me away. I stay still and slowly lick my lower lip as I breathe hard, trying to recompose myself. His cheeks are rosy. I’ve turned him on. “I’ve sworn to myself,” he whispers feebly.

I lean closer, our foreheads pressing together. I close my eyes. “What?”

What silly, unkeepable promise has he made?

“Not to sleep with you anymore.” His voice is husky from even saying it.

Lust pools at the pit of my stomach. Never again? How can he think that we’ll never fuck again? Because when he and I fuck, we fuck. Unapologetic and graceless and sweaty. How stupid of him. But for now, for now –

“I can respect that.”

He looks surprised. Of course he is.

I swerve in for a kiss, a long, desperate kiss as I push us backwards, until he’s pressed to the bathroom wall. He’s hesitating, clearly confused, but I merely push my hips against his, leaving no space between. He groans when he feels my erection against him. He’s wearing his black bell jeans, the ones that hang way too low on his waist. The denim is thicker than the fabric of my briefs, but the layers working as a barrier don’t stop me. I feel him, and he can feel me.

“I get so hard just kissing you,” I whisper, my hand at the back of his head. I slowly thrust against him, dragging my crotch over his. My bulge is obvious, the briefs unable to hide it. He shudders and pushes against the pressure. He locks eyes with me, surrendering further, and he kisses me. His hips begin to move, grinding against me. Permission. Admittance. Those things I’m sick of asking for. I wrap my free arm around his lower back and begin to move with him shamelessly. We entwine the best we can.

We pull on each other, throat, earlobe, lips, kissing and tasting, always coming back to kiss with swollen lips. Our hips move fast and hard, thrusting to get friction and pressure. The outline of his cock presses against my erection. “Fuck, you feel that?” I ask, and he nods quickly. “What are you? Come on, say it.” I trace his lower lip with my tongue as he tries to speak.

“God, I – Fuck, I’m so hard.” He laughs desperately, hissing as our hips move. “God, Ryan.” His hand twists in my hair, and our noses press together as he pulls me in for a clumsy kiss. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Then don’t.” My hands go to the top of his jeans, trying to unbuckle his belt.

“Ryan.”

“I know, I know. I’m not – Just trust me. God, let me feel you,” I beg, but he seems to take it as an order.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he looks down between us. His belt becomes unbuckled, my fingers trembling as I fight with the top button, fingertips grazing his skin, the line of hair in the middle. I manage to get him unzipped. He swears, his body pressed to the wall but his hips pushing forwards. I slowly brush the skin exposed with the pad of my thumb – the bit that is one of my favourite parts of his body. Just there below his navel, where the trail of body hair becomes less soft, becomes shorter, coarser, mixing into his pubic hair. I love that spot. I love kissing it and I love inhaling it and I love the way it feels right now, against my calloused fingertips. Travelling downwards, my fingers brush through dark curls and then get to the base of his fat cock, the skin warm.

He’s staying so still. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. I slowly pull his cock out, feeling him hot in my hand. It’s not even want that fills every fibre of my being, but need.

“You look so good,” I say honestly, the pink, flushed flesh of his cock pressed against my palm. I wrap my fingers around his hard length, keeping the grip loose as I run it from the head to the base. He lets me touch him, size him up like I’ve never done this before. My hand slips into his underwear and cups his balls. He sighs contentedly and pushes into the touch, his plump lower lip between his teeth. I stroke the skin just behind his balls with a single finger, to watch him jerk and moan. His cock gets even harder, steadily pointing upwards and needing attention. I pull my hand out and focus on stroking him instead.

Jerking him off is hotter than I can stand. He’s giving himself away with his gasps, thrusting into the fist of my hand. I squeeze tighter on the upstroke, and soon his crown glistens with clear pre-come. He gasps when my thumb brushes over his slit, spreading the liquid slowly.

“You fucking tease,” he hisses. I don’t mean to tease – it’s just captivating. He kisses me fiercely, his hands skimming down my sides. “Let me see you,” he groans, voice low.

“Okay,” I rush out, nodding. Fuck.

He pushes my briefs down hastily. His hands first cup my ass, kneading, and my body feels wired up when he lets a finger briefly run over my hole. He soon reaches for the front, my cock now released.

“Jesus,” I breathe out when he takes me in his hand. Our foreheads press together. I look down to see him in my hand, and to see myself in his. He’s not giving me any mercy, his fingers wrapped around my cock tightly as he’s stroking me. My eyelids flutter shut, our uneven breaths filling my ears. Our lips find each other’s sporadically, clumsily, the matching rhythms of our hands too distracting. My chest radiates with heat, but it’s not just sexual want – it’s more than that. A yearning for us to become a part of each other. Then he won’t be able to walk away anymore. Then he won’t be able to do anything except bend to my will and stay.

I falter when his hand disappears, almost falling against him. The groan I let out is pathetic – please touch me, don’t fucking stop – but then I smell the scent of myself, his fingertips under our noses as he licks his palm. His hand hastily moves back down, and fuck, that’s even better. My mind spins with desire for him.

“Remember the hotel? Our room?” I prompt, licking my lips. I stroke him faster, every now and then swiping my thumb over the sensitive crown to spread his pre-come.

“Yeah,” he replies hoarsely.

“Remember how we’d spend entire afternoons fucking?”

He squeezes my cock tighter in response, nodding. Our hips move restlessly as we try to thrust into each other’s hands. He groans, his head tilting backwards. My teeth scrape the skin below his left ear, kissing, tasting. My nose presses against the shell of his ear. “I want to fuck you all night,” I whisper.

“It’s morning,” he corrects but he sounds like he doesn’t particularly care.

“Even better. Got all day too.” Not going to the venue at all, fuck that – staying here instead, in this same hotel, fucking and fucking, sleeping, then fucking again, kissing the back of his knee as I bend his legs over his stomach.

The wet tip of his cock brushes against my bare stomach. I jerk him off faster, trying to make him lose it. He seems to have the same plan, stroking me faster, flicking his wrist, making my toes curl.

“Fuck, Ry, that’s so good,” he groans. His brows have knit together and his eyes have screwed shut, and his mouth hangs open as he breathes. It’s an almost pained look, but it’s pleasure. I let the blunt edge of my nail drag across his glistening tip on the next stroke, and he shudders. Just a bit of pain at the right moment just fucking undoes him. “Shit, you’re gonna make me come,” he breathes, his free hand in my hair as he pulls me closer.

“That’s the idea,” I say, my voice lower and huskier. He kisses me, and the strength he puts into it paralyses me. It’s a desperate kiss from a desperate man – I recognise it, I give them myself rather often. He swallows hard, his fingernails digging into my scalp.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. His hand on my dick has slowed down, and I’ve forgotten to stroke him altogether. “Ryan, please.”

I nudge his nose with my own, getting him to lift his head so that our lips can touch. It’s a mere press of our swollen lips together, gentle and soft. My heart is beating heavily in my chest, in a way that makes me feel its fast but still steady thuds in all of my body. I slowly pick up the pace of my hand, and he groans, encouraging. I won’t stop. I’ll get him off.

I work him up again, which isn’t difficult – I focus on ignoring how he keeps touching me, his talented hand knowing just how I like him touching me – and when his breathing begins to hitch in the familiar way of him getting close, I peck his lips once – butterfly light – and sink down onto my knees.

“Fuck, what are you –”

I have to taste him.

My mouth wraps around the tip of his cock, my tongue flattening against the slit. He gasps loudly, the back of his head slamming into the wall with a thud. My hand closes in a fist around the base of his cock, covering a few inches there to keep him steady.

“You don’t have to,” he breathes, sounding fucking turned on. Of course I don’t have to.

My eyes close as I take in as much as I can – not thinking about it or his size, driven only by the want to take him like this. My cheeks hollow as I suck on his length, and his hand comes down to squeeze my shoulder. His hips thrust forwards, like he wants more. I feel my throat tightening first, an instinct to push him out of my mouth. I stop for a second, breathe through my nose, and push the feeling away. Then I relax my jaw and take it. He tastes good on my tongue. He smells good, too. I begin to blow him, working my mouth on him. He’s groaning loudly, swearing heavily, trying to keep his hips still. When I look up at him, he’s got his eyes closed and one hand in his hair, his mouth open. It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen, and I suck him hard and watch the way his brows knit together. It’s a new kind of power I’ve never had over him before, my tongue licking the underside of his cock.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns. “ _Fuck_ , I can’t –” His fingers dig into my shoulder. I reach for my own cock with my free hand, fisting myself as I suck him. “Ryan. _Ryan!_ ” He sounds frustrated, like he can’t handle this right now, like he’s trying to fight a losing battle.

I pull back, the weight of his cock on my tongue disappearing. I press a kiss to his leaking crown, wet lips, wet cock, pre-come and saliva mixing, a strand of it stretching from my lower lip as I pull back. Everything is dazed and too hot.

His hand shoots down immediately and he begins to jerk off fervently, his hips thrusting into it. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, his movements eased by my spit. He sounds like he feels too good. My fingers dig into his hip, and I touch myself, harder, faster –

“Oh fucking _shit_ ,” he groans and comes. I haven’t moved away much at all, and the first streak hits me on the cheek. It’s fucking beautiful. I move back in without meaning to and wrap my mouth around the tip. I’ve tasted him before – you fuck a guy as often as I’ve fucked him, you get to know what his come tastes like as a by-product of cleaning your skin or his, of kissing, sucking, it happens – but not like this. His come is bitter and warm on my tongue, and he’s still coming. I feel the spurts on my tongue, filling my mouth before I can swallow. His moans have dropped an octave now that I’ve taken him in my mouth. My balls tighten further, fire curling up in my guts, and I moan with my mouth full of him as I fist my cock.

He’s panting when he finally slips out of my mouth. I lean back, swallowing, my mouth feeling used. His taste is all over, penetrating, inescapable. I run my tongue over my teeth, along the insides of my cheeks – him, him, him – and finally come hard, jerking off on my knees in front of him. The world slips into black as pleasure rattles through me, come sliding between my fingers.  
  
I’m almost done when a hand lands on my head, soft and gentle. I try to catch my breath, my body tingling. Fuck. Fuck, we needed this. My hand slowly moves on my cock to milk out the rest of my semen. I look up at him, and our eyes meet. He looks fucked: his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen, his clothes askew, his jeans unzipped, his half-hard cock out. His palm cups my cheek, and his thumb traces the skin. I realise he’s wiping away his come on me.

“Jesus,” he says in a hoarse voice, a certain softness to it. Then, not nearly as softly but not entirely accusatory either, “Who have you been practising on?”

“No one,” I say honestly. He was wrong about practice making someone perfect or the desire of wanting to please. You just have to want it badly enough. Have something to prove or something to lose. He does a small scoff, however, like he doesn’t buy that. “No one,” I repeat, not wanting to argue. I lean in and slowly trace the head of his softening cock with my tongue. He sharply pulls in air. I let the tip of my nose brush his shaft, smelling him, before tucking him back into his underwear, pulling the fabric over him.

I stand back up, my knees a little weak and my briefs ungracefully down to mid-thigh. I reach for a towel to wipe my come-covered hand. Somehow it’s too hard to meet his gaze, although knowing he’s now seen me on my knees in front of him, mouth full of his cock, _god_ , that he’s seen me like that and that I’ve let it happen, has warmth spreading at the bottom of my stomach. After my hands are clean, I take a hold of his fly and slowly zip him back up. His breathing is still uneven, and I feel the gaze of his blown pupils on me. I buckle his belt, smoothing over his crotch once I’m done. Like before. Perfect again. He feels a little bit harder than he did a second ago.

“Better than my codeine visions,” I joke, but he doesn’t look amused. I pull my briefs up for some decency. This shouldn’t feel awkward.

He’s looking around the bathroom like reality is hitting him hard. His neck and cheeks are rosy, and he has that post-orgasm glow about him. Getting off relaxes him.

The empty codeine bottle has rolled to the foot of the toilet, and though I know there is nothing inside, I yearn for it. But I won’t. I promised him.

He rubs his face and laughs. It’s not a happy laugh but a desperate one. I’m not surprised. This is what he does: he falls into me and then takes it back again.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait at least five minutes before letting the regret settle in?” I ask quietly.

He laughs louder, shaking his head. “But I don’t regret it. I don’t.”

“Right. You’ll just pretend it never happened.”

“No.” He smoothes his shirt slightly in some attempt to hide the telltale signs, but then he gives up. His brown eyes meet mine. “I don’t want that either.” He sounds anguished for some insane reason. He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “That was… God, the things you do to me don’t have words.” My heart swells instantly. A dark cloud appears behind his eyes. “I don’t regret it, and that’s the worst part. I only feel like shit when I think of what I’m doing to other people.”

“You mean Shane,” I supply for him. The bathroom feels colder than before. Shane is even here. Omnipresent. Forever a cloud over whatever we do.

“Don’t say his name that way.” He sounds hurt on his behalf.

“What way am I supposed to say it?”

“ _I’m_ the fuck up here. Not him. He’s never done a single thing wrong.” I’d disagree: he took what was rightfully mine. “Fuck,” he sighs like the bigger picture is coming back into view. “You with your pills and your fucking messes, and me here again, and fuck. What am I doing to Shane? Again? I’m such a fuck up. I’m such a fucking fuck up.” He seems to be getting himself worked up over this.

“I told you I’m done with codeine,” I say quickly so that he doesn’t hold that against me.

“You say that, but I don’t even know if I trust you,” he laughs, and the words cut in deep. Of course he can trust me. I’m the only person he should ever trust. “The thought of… trusting you. Of letting you in fucking terrifies me.”

“Why would it scare you?” I ask in confusion, such a thought never having crossed my mind.

“Of course it does,” he says, which isn’t an answer. What kind of a level of letting me in is this? All the way, which he has never done with anyone in his life? Or keeping me at the fringes, the way he’s kept Shane? “Look, I’m... I’m really confused right now.” He looks like it. He looks like a man being pulled in two opposite directions.

“Okay,” I say soothingly.

“I need to figure things out. About what I - feel and what I want, and - I feel like shit that I did this to Shane yet again. I miss Shane when he’s not around, you know? _I miss him_ ,” he says empathetically like I might not get him otherwise, but I do. I miss Keltie every day. “And I- I miss you.” He stops and stares at me like I’m a mirage standing there in the bathroom in pale yellow briefs. “God, I miss you.” He exhales heavily. “I’m just really exhausted emotionally, and I just don’t _know_. Now there’s all this label business with Columbia, too, and –”

“But you’re saying that I’ve got a shot,” I interrupt him because that’s what it sounds like. I’ve got a shot.

“The two of us,” he says feebly. “How could that ever work?”

“Amazingly well,” I tell him, suddenly full of renewed hope. I’ve got a shot. He’s here, he’s not running away, he’s acknowledging it. Us. “Can I kiss you? I really want to.”

“No.”

“We were kissing just before _and_ I sucked your cock, but now I can’t kiss you?”

“No.”

“That’s some fucked up logic you’ve got there,” I say, not even upset, just grinning and feeling light. He laughs, but this is all heavy for him, I can see that. It’s draining him and confusing him and keeping him up at night. I get that he feels bad that he’ll break Shane’s heart, but Shane will get over it. He will.

He says, “I think I need some perspective on things.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Tour life is always so detached, you know? You don’t see the bigger picture.”

“I agree.” I might be nodding excessively, but every word he says between now and finally giving up the fight and being mine is a word of wisdom that I’ll fully support.

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I think you’re doing it pretty well, whatever it is.”

He laughs, and I’ve got him charmed. Wrapped around my little finger. He’s mine now. All –

“That’s why it’ll be really good to see William when we get to LA, you know? He anchors me a bit. He gives good advice.”

William? As in, out of the closet William Beckett who hates my guts and whose last words to me were at the hospital after the bus crash, a mere ‘A shame you didn’t die’? This is the man who is giving his views on who is more worthy, immaculate Shane or contemptible me?

“…Yeah. Great.”

Well.

I’m fucked.


	5. Editing History

Back in 1971, William Beckett got fired from a phone sales company due to his low sales. He had hated the job, anyway, seeing himself as a more rebellious spirit. They had made him wear a tie to the office even though he was on the _phone_ , and he said screw that and screw you, and stopped putting his hair in a ponytail. After that, he managed to get a job as a cleaner in the Winterland Ballroom, a well respected San Francisco venue, but he soon joined their venue staff as a tech. There he befriended a guy called Claudio, who knew tour promoters in LA, from where he had only recently moved to Fog City. Claudio had toured with bands, which William thought sounded like fun, so he asked Claudio to keep him informed.

In late summer 1972, a band called The Followers released their second album and went on tour. They needed roadies, and someone told Claudio, who told William, who expressed interest, and who was consequently hired. We all thought William was a bit of a whiny faggot who could be a laugh but was mostly draining with his impulsive personality and tendency to create drama out of nothing. Still – he was a good roadie and got along with Andy, Zack and Simon. It was a good crew.

Brendon Urie from Here and There, USA, moved to San Francisco in 1972. He had probably heard that it was the haven of homosexuals, and he headed straight to The Castro District and slept with a different guy every night for the first two weeks, partly because he had nowhere to stay and used these men’s places as hotels, and partly because the shock of being surrounded by other gay men got him overly excited, but also because he just loved cock. Then he realised he had kind of slept with the hottest guys there, and also that the ugly ones now assumed he was always up for it, and one of his suitors got a bit too touchy once and he kneed him in the balls. My boy’s always been fierce.

Brendon was a multi-instrumentalist looking for a job that would somehow relate to music, and so he managed to score a job at the Winterland Ballroom. He swooned over David Bowie and changed guitar strings and scrubbed the dressing room floor, and he met William, who was only a part-timer then because he needed flexibility to go on tour with different bands. The two got along marvellously well and became good friends. Brendon, however, got fired from the venue when his boss discovered that Brendon had helped himself to the till to get the missing rent money he needed for that month. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s not a thief, he told me that. He is not a thief and that’s the only time in his entire life that he’s stolen anything. Well. Apart from some clothes and food when he first left home. He’s not proud of it either, some kind of Christian ‘thou shalt not steal’ guilt overshadowing the humiliating memory of him helping himself to a pretty modest fifty bucks.

Now Simon Keith was a big, bearded man, who could play every Hendrix song with his eyes closed, but not behind his back or with his teeth. He was from Missouri, T-total and a good laugh, but back in 1972, he met me, and I introduced him to whisky. He thought it tasted rather nice, and since then he had a bottle of whisky per day. One night in 1974, he and his friend Zack stayed up boozing all night, and in the morning Simon woke up, fell down the stairs and broke his leg just before he was supposed to join The Followers on tour.

The band urgently needed a roadie, and William thought of his friend Brendon, currently unemployed and homeless and permanently homosexual (not that he told us that), and we said sure, and Brendon said sure, having heard our music and not minding it, and besides, San Francisco was starting to feel small and he needed a change of scenery and definitely the money, and everyone said sure sure sure, and then I got on that tour bus one June morning, and there Brendon was, stuffing his bag into his bunk and saying “Hey” like it was no big thing.

But had William Beckett been better at phone sales, or had I respected Simon’s refusal to drink alcohol, or had William’s friend Claudio never moved to San Francisco, or had Brendon done the Christian thing and not tried stealing fifty bucks from his employer, Brendon and I never would have met, I never would have fallen in love with him, I would probably never even have slept with a man, The Followers might not have ever split up (although that’s pushing it), and I never would have fallen out of grace with William Beckett for screwing his friend Brendon around.

And we never would have gotten here: Los Angeles on a bright, sunny morning, standing in the hotel lobby that’s full of light, tour passes around our necks and sunglasses covering our eyes, William and Brendon embracing like brothers, and William’s eyes landing on me and sending a clear message: you are the enemy.

Shane’s next in line, and William hugs Shane long and hard, beaming, ruffling Shane’s hair like long lost friends. Shane laughs and talks animatedly. Brendon smiles slightly nervously. I wonder how he’s going to break it to William: us.

I asked Brendon in Houston yesterday if he plans to tell William everything now that he seems to have decided that the time to confess is nigh. He said no, that he won’t tell William who or when and that William would castrate him for cheating on Shane. He simply plans to say that there is someone else.

I’m the someone else. He is placing me as an option, as something he _might_ choose, and it’s the only thing keeping me going.

Three days without codeine.

When I was taking it, my arm felt fine. I also felt nauseous, had headaches, suffered from insomnia and a handful of other side effects that I figured _were_ side effects but couldn’t know for sure. Brendon went and did his homework, brought information leaflets from a pharmacy that he’s forced me to read. I assured him that I had not at any point suffered from erectile dysfunction, however. Nope, I can get it up just fine.

But now that I’m not taking codeine, I feel more nauseous, the headaches are even worse, I sleep even less, I break out in cold sweat and shiver. Vicky’s beside herself, and most of the guys think I’ve caught a cold. I refuse to see a doctor. It’s withdrawal, that’s all. It feels like claws are ripping up my insides, and I hate it and want to find more codeine, but then.

I’m an option now.

He keeps checking up on me. Worried. Concerned. But proud that I’m doing it.

William, Shane and Brendon walk over to the band as we check into the hotel. I look like shit although I’m wearing huge sunglasses that try to hide my face – I can see that in William’s deprecating gaze, but you know what? Fuck him. He doesn’t know anything about Brendon and me, and he certainly knows nothing about me. And when Brendon chooses me, William will just have to deal.

“William,” I say as a greeting. “Long time, no see.”

“Ryan,” he says with a stiff nod.

“What’s happenin’?”

He shrugs in an elusive way, folding his arms over his chest.

“Heard you’re swinging the other way these days,” I note, unable to help it. His eyes flash dangerously, but come on. We all knew he was gay before he did, even when he was trying to screw women. It’s funny. There is no way I cannot mock him for it.

“Who is and who isn’t,” he says pointedly, looking at me sharply. My smile fades. With guys like him around, no wonder there are rumours about me. Fucker.

Shane looks surprised that we’re throwing insults out of nowhere. William, of course, has to be in on Brendon’s little secret of not telling Shane about The Followers tour and what happened between Brendon and me. Everyone’s busy lying to Shane.

Vicky comes back from the desk and hands me my key. I glance at the number, say, “2504. I’m off to take a nap,” and leave them to it, my eyes briefly locking with Brendon’s.

Were this the good old days, Brendon would take the hint, lose Shane, and soon appear at my door for a pleasant and sweaty afternoon fuck. But that’s not happening because he won’t even let me kiss him. He barely even touches me – he’ll feel my forehead for temperature, but that’s it. And the second I try to touch him in return, he recoils, seems confused, makes a quick exit. It’s like now he has decided to obtain morals and doesn’t want to do anything inappropriate while he remains undecided, like _now_ the cheating would actually be cheating.

Vicky’s cancelled all of my previous engagements for today. Our first LA show isn’t until tomorrow, and I was supposed to do PR, but my health comes first. She makes sure I go to my hotel room, disconnects the phone, draws the curtains, stays nagging at me as I undress, and only leaves when I push her out of the door.

I hide under the covers, feeling feverish and drained. Maybe Brendon will come check up on me, even though he said that he’d be hanging out with William all day. He’s meeting Mark from Columbia tomorrow, and one of Vicky’s guys, Carden I think, is flying in from New York to meet Brendon too, to potentially manage him if the two get on. Brendon’s nervous about all of it, not sure what to expect. Neither do I – do they want to sign him on the spot or do they want to see what he’s got first?

Brendon’s life will change tomorrow.

So will mine.

* * *

I sleep for seventeen hours, waking up in the middle of the night. I’m covered in cold sweat but finally feel rested. My stomach grumbles. I call room service, but they say that the kitchen is closed. I say I’m Ryan Ross, and they say that a steak dinner will be cooked for me promptly. I say that I’ll come down to the breakfast room to eat it, and they say that it’s located on the thirty-fifth floor.

I shower and shave, my hand trembling as the razor slides across my cheek. I cut myself twice. I throw clothes on, and it’s a bit after four in the morning as I head up to get some kind of food into my system. A chirpy waitress is already expecting me.

It’s slightly eerie, sitting in the spacious breakfast room by myself. The sun is coming up between tall skyscrapers of the financial district, hills in the distance lighting up with morning sun. Everything looks official and new. It’s weird being in Los Angeles again, but no longer having a place of my own here. Being a visitor someplace that used to be my home.

I’m seated near the entrance to the breakfast room, the remains of a steak and cream potatoes on my plate, and so I hear the sharp “Hey!” clearly. The glass door rattles as William tries to pull it open, but the place isn’t officially open yet. The waitress comes rushing to see what the commotion is.

I take my napkin, press it to my lips slowly. William calls out, “Hey! I need to talk to you! Don’t you dare ignore me!”

The waitress looks alarmed.

“Let him in,” I tell her. Not a deranged fan, but an anti-fan. William clearly needs to get something off his chest, probably how much he despises me. Okay. If that’s what needs to be done.

William keeps his head held high when the waitress opens the door, and he marches in like a man coming onto a battlefield. “Sit down,” I offer. He looks down his nose at me, but then does. “You want a drink?” He huffs. “Two whiskeys, then.”

The waitress nods and hurries off. It’s too early to legally be serving alcohol. Laws don’t apply to me.

William looks tired. He hasn’t gone to bed yet.

“Are you staying at the hotel?” I ask, wondering how he could afford it. The place opened last year and is one of the hippest places we’ve ever stayed in.

“No. I’ve been hanging out in Shane and Brendon’s room.” He says it with emphasis, like he’s a news bearer.

“Right.”

The whiskeys arrive. He glares at the glass like he doesn’t want to take anything from me, but then he downs it in one. He coughs and presses a hand to his throat. “Fuck.”

I sip mine slowly. I’m in no rush. That cocky arrogance William had this morning is gone – now he just seems unsettled. Brendon’s probably told him of his extramarital thoughts. I hope that he has. He promised me he would.

William’s fingers whiten as he squeezes the glass too hard, looking thunderous. “I know it’s you.”

I look across the table at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Of course it’s fucking you,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair in defeat. “You just couldn’t let him go, could you? And don’t think I haven’t asked him about it. I have over and over again, all winter and spring, and he’s told me you two have nothing to do with each other, and I wanted to believe him, I did, but – All the proof I need is the way he says your damn name.” He looks around hopelessly. Brendon’s one of his best friends, but the way he hugged Shane showed that he considers Shane to be a friend of his too. And now Brendon’s said... I don’t know what exactly. That there is an option.

William looks at me long and hard. “Have you two fucked yet?”

I laugh in surprise. “That’s really not any of your business.” My tone is too defensive even to my own ears. He looks pissed off.

“So you have.” He rubs his face tiredly. “Shit.” He probably thinks it’s a recent development. He has no idea Brendon gave up nearly six months ago, and then again, and again, and again. William leans over the table and looks me straight in the eye. “You have to leave them alone.”

And now _I’m_ the home wrecker? Hardly.

“What if Brendon doesn’t want to be left alone?”

“He does! You just – You don’t get it. You think you can come in and out of his life as you please, but you fuck it up. You fuck _him_ up. Shane on the other hand –”

“Oh, please,” I interrupt, because the last thing I need is a rant on Shane’s virtues and my vices. “I didn’t steal Brendon.”

“He can’t say no to you. He never could,” he says slowly like it’s taking extra effort to make me understand this. “Ryan, you fucked him over that summer. You used him and then you just threw him away. Do you have any idea what a mess he was after that? After you? Of course you don’t, because you weren’t there. Well, I was.”

“ _He_ left me, not the other way around,” I remind him, getting angry of being accused. He’s the one who told me to leave, who called me vile and cruel. I offered him the damn world, and that’s what I got in return.

“It was the wisest decision he ever made! He’d fallen for you fucking hard, and you treated him like a lap dog,” he hisses angrily, and my words of protest die in my throat. My insides feel heavy and paralysed all of a sudden. William stares at me angrily and then with slight disbelief. “You didn’t know he was in love with you?”

“He said –” I start, trying to trace ancient memories. He said he was falling in love. Not that he already was. There’s a big difference. And what did I know back then? I didn’t _know_ that love really existed, and I certainly didn’t know that it could exist between two men. I didn’t know. He never said. That is _not_ my fault.

“I knew how he felt. I could see it,” William muses like he can read Brendon’s feelings that easily. I don’t think he can. Hindsight is all he’s working with, hindsight and the times Brendon’s opened up to him. God, what did Brendon say to him back then? Did he really… say that he was… With me? “Brendon knew how he felt about you. And then you just left him. He was homeless and broke, and you just left him in a fucking mess and carried on with your rockstar life. You spat him out and never fucking looked back.”

“That’s not how it happened. Don’t think for a _second_ you know how I felt back then or how I feel now.”

“But it’s true,” he insists. “Shane saved him. What did you do? Nothing. Fucking nothing.”

“I’d call ‘saving’ Brendon slightly dramatised.”

“Giving him somewhere to stay, paying off his debts, getting his overly touchy boss off his back and helping him back on his feet? Yeah, maybe I am dramatising it,” he says sardonically. He then breaks into a gigantic, sadistic grin when I say nothing in return. When I just stare. “Oh. You had no idea. Why am I not surprised?”

“Brendon’s never talked about that time or –”

“Of course not! He’s ashamed of it all, isn’t he? It killed him to accept Shane’s help, but Shane offered. Unconditionally,” he adds, like unconditional is something I would never offer. My utter incomprehension must show because he sighs and leans forward. “Look, Pete screwed him over for a breach of contract when he quit before the tour was done, and he only got half of the money he was promised for being a roadie for you guys.”

“I never knew that,” I say instantly, my mind reeling. Pete Wentz, that cheap fucking git. But it’s not just Pete, it’s all of this: Brendon never told me. I wouldn’t have let that happen to him had I known.

“Of course you didn’t know. You didn’t care. Just like you didn’t care about Andy. We all know you would’ve gone to jail, driving with that much alcohol in your blood. You nearly killed us all, you selfish fucking prick, and you fucked Andy over when he was made to take the blame for you, and you fucked Brendon over when he’d fallen for you. You didn’t steal Brendon from Shane, okay, maybe, but you’re his weakness. He can’t say no to you, but that doesn’t mean he should ever say yes.”

Not many men could call me a prick to my face and live to tell the tale. Not many.

I know that Andy took the blame for the bus crash. That was decided on that night, that _I_ hadn’t been the one driving. Pete orchestrated it, and Andy got enough money for it to buy a new house. It was fair. It seemed fair. I had been drinking – I couldn’t own up to it. Andy was driving too fast, it was raining hard, he lost control of the bus. It happens. We didn’t force Andy into admitting it, so how is that my fault?

As for Brendon... He was staying with that creepy faggot that walked around in high heels. He had his bag and a guitar and a mattress. But he didn’t care. He chose it over me.

So Pete refused to give him the money he deserved. I didn’t know that. I got a lawyer to talk to Pete for me. I didn’t want to see my manager again. I didn’t know of Brendon’s debts, and I didn’t know he got stuck in a job with a boss who… The thought of anyone touching him without his consent is enough to fill me with rage, but as far as I can see, none of that is my fault.

But I feel like it is.

“Tell me,” I say quietly, my chest constricting. I need to know. Brendon won’t tell me, and Shane will wonder if I start asking questions. William knows. “Just fucking tell me.”

He seems to consider this awhile, but then nods. Probably knowing that it will be unpleasant for me to hear. “Brendon was in debt even before the tour. Whatever money he made that summer, he spent on paying other people back, but even that didn’t cover it all. Terry let him stay with him for a while, and then I let him stay on my couch, but then my landlord threatened me with eviction, so… He slept on people’s couches, started working as a bartender. It wasn’t enough to pay people back. He was a mess over you. He did the bit where he’d only talk about what an asshole you were, and then he did the bit where he did drugs and slept around, and he did the bit where he was quiet and wouldn’t speak to anyone. He’d listen to _Boneless_ when I was out of the house and thought that I didn’t know. And he wasn’t – He just wasn’t getting better. He didn’t care, really, about going to work or trying to pay off his debts, which only made it worse with the interests these guys were taking. Not a dangerous crowd, but not pleasant either. Luckily that dodgy guy who ran the club had a soft spot for him. I’m sure he would’ve been fired otherwise.”

I keep telling myself that William is exaggerating this, editing history to guilt trip me. It’s working. My throat feels tight, and nausea that isn’t connected to my withdrawal is pooling in my guts.

“And then he met Shane, and Shane fell for him instantly. I had to play matchmaker for those two to come together. Brendon didn’t want to date people, he was too messed up. When Shane found out about the mess Brendon was in, he offered to take Brendon in. Help him get things sorted. Brendon was running out of friends who’d let him lodge at their places, and he usually paid people for letting him stay, but Shane said he wouldn’t charge him a cent. Shane said they could be friends if Brendon wasn’t interested. So Brendon moved in, although they hardly knew each other.” William smiles obnoxiously when he knowingly adds, “It didn’t stay platonic for very long.”

For some reason, my jealousy feels worse than it usually is. The thought of that first time together, when I was still so fresh on his mind. If he thought of me. If that’s when he started not to think of me. If he did it out of obligation, or was he really attracted to Shane, or was it gratitude or love or –

I didn’t steal Brendon from Shane. Shane stole him from me. William’s just proven it.

“Shane loves him,” William says quietly. “Shane is good for him. Shane doesn’t fuck him up. And Brendon’s judgement is lacking when it comes to you. He might have forgotten how you used him, but I haven’t. And you and I both know how it’d end, with his heart broken yet again. It’s inevitable. Do you want to know why?” He stands up, clearly only to create the sense of towering over me. “Because you’re a selfish asshole who’s never cared about anyone but himself. So do everyone a favour and leave him be.”

“I can’t,” I say simply, trying not to feel insulted that that’s what William thinks of me.

“Then I suggest that you figure out how. Because if you care about him at all, you’ll put an end to it before it even starts.”

Having said his piece, he heads back out.

He’s so wrong about all of it. It started years ago, and it’s still ongoing. There is no putting an end to it anymore, you _can’t_ put an end to something that’s infinite.

Maybe William’s right about something, though. Maybe Shane fixed Brendon for me. And there’s so much Brendon’s never told me.

So much he is holding against me.

* * *

I almost miss Brendon’s meeting with Mark Reynolds of Columbia, who has flown from New York just like Vicky’s puppet Carden has. The label doesn’t even want to wait for Brendon to get back to NY – they’ve sent an A&R across the country to speak to him. It’s even worse than we thought.

I told Brendon that I’d meet him in the hotel lobby at eleven, that I’d be there to figuratively hold his hand. Even though he is dancing a fine line between avoiding me and looking after me, he still wants me to go with him. The crew thinks I’m being damn nice, Shane’s said that I’m such a considerate guy. Vicky, Gabe and Jon have all been giving me looks, like they thought I had given up on that already.

I can’t give up on him.

I almost miss the meeting, though.

It’s William’s fault. William and all the shitty things he said got under my skin. I finally get it: Brendon said he was scared to let me in. William said that he was in love with me. None of that is my _fault_ , but they think it is. I sit in the breakfast room, nursing whiskey and smoking until the waitress kindly tells me that it’s six in the morning and that they’re opening up for other hotel guests soon.

My first instinct is to find Brendon and tell him how I had nothing to do with what he went through, how I thought he wanted me gone. He’s probably still asleep, however, sharing a bed with Shane, no doubt, but as I wander along the corridor, I bump into Jon. Cassie’s gone to the hotel gym for a morning workout – Jon looks tired just saying it – and we go to their room, get out guitars and start messing about.

It’s also Jon’s fault. He doesn’t remind me that I have somewhere to be. Neither does Cassie, who doesn’t seem pleased to find me jamming with her boyfriend in their hotel room. She changes in the bathroom and says she’s going shopping.

And because it’s a distraction, I slip into it willingly, not snapping out of it until Gabe and Shane show up. And you’d think that seeing Shane would make the bells go off in my head, but instead I keep thinking of him helping Brendon out over two years ago now. I hear Shane’s voice in my head, an assuring ‘Look, I just want to help you out. I won’t try anything with you. I’ve got an extra room, we can be friends’, and I see Brendon’s eyes cast downwards, unsure and humiliated. I wonder who made the first move. Probably Shane. He knew, like I know, that there is no way in hell either one of us could ever be friends with Brendon.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way already?” Shane asks as he and Gabe get settled in the room. Gabe snatches my cigarette and guitar and begins to play the intro to _Royal Blood_.

I wonder if Brendon felt like he had no choice but to begin a relationship with Shane. If that’s why he chose Shane: there were no alternatives.

Shane looks concerned. I have no energy to even talk to him.

“Well, since you’re here and not there,” he says, sounding very confused, “could I finally interview you?”

And as I wonder what ‘not there’ means, I finally remember where I am meant to be. There. With Brendon. I grab Gabe’s arm to check his wristwatch, and it’s half past eleven, and no one told me, and it’s William’s fault, Jon’s fault, Cassie’s fault, just like the post-tour mess Brendon suffered back in ’74 – someone else’s fault.

“Oh, fuck,” I swear, standing up quickly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then I’m out of the room and I’m pressing the elevator arrow going down, and then I give up and decide to take the stairs, go down two floors, realise I still have over twenty to go, and then I try the elevator on another floor, wait impatiently, get inside and press the G button. I’ll take a cab, make it just in time, just make sure that he doesn’t think I’ve abandoned him, that _he_ knows I’m not the kind to just throw him to the wolves. And he’ll know that I didn’t do it on purpose and he’ll forgive me, and –

The doors to the lobby open, and I rush out and head for the exit, stopping only when my name gets called. I swirl around and see Brendon with a young guy with dark brown shoulder-long hair. They both look stressed out like they’ve been waiting. Oh thank god.

I hurry over, trying to catch my breath. “I was just on my way to –”

“I don’t care,” Brendon says icily. He’s dressed up – black slacks instead of jeans, and a maroon dress shirt with a butterfly collar that sits on him perfectly. Probably shopping that he and William did yesterday. “We’re late,” he says angrily. He doesn’t wait for a reply.

Me and the guy with the rock hair follow him out of the hotel. He extends his hand. “Mike Carden from Asher Management. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ross.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, ignoring his hand and catching up with Brendon instead. “Listen, Bren –”

“Don’t talk to me,” he hisses, opening up the back door to a taxi standing outside the hotel. “You can take another one.”

Great, now he’s pissed off again.

“You take another one,” I tell Mike. Mike looks surprised and alarmed because there are no other taxis around, but I only follow Brendon in before his taxi can take off. His eyes flash dangerously when I join him in the backseat, but I lean over to pass the driver some of the bills in my pocket and say a simple, “Drive.”

The taxi driver looks at me with wide eyes. “I’ll drive you to the fucking moon for that.” He takes off.

Brendon’s got his arms folded over his chest. I look at him with what I hope are puppy eyes. He doesn’t budge.

“I’m really sorry I was late.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “We called your room, and we called Vicky, and we’re late now because you fucking vanished. Where were you, then? Stocking up on your favourite pain killers, maybe?”

“I was with Jon. You can ask him. And I’m clean. I promised you, remember?”

I’m definitely clean because I feel like shit. I’m no longer tired and I’ve been fed, but I still feel weak, still start shivering out of nowhere, and I know that the headaches and nausea will last for days if not weeks before I’ve come out of the woods.

“Don’t be mad, Bren,” I say quietly because excuses are useless. I’ll skip straight to the grovelling. I know I let him down, but I’m here now. He says nothing, his shoulders drawn tight. “It was William’s fault. He said all these things –”

“When did you talk to him?” he asks sharply. I’ve finally gotten his attention.

“This morning. He told me things about that summer. And he told me about you and Shane, back in San Francisco, and I just...” I swallow hard, not knowing where to start. “I’m sorry. Baby, I’m so sorry.”

The car comes to a very sudden stop, tires screeching and the both of us falling forwards. The driver’s turned around. “You two, get out,” he barks. His face is red and he looks furious.

I stare in confusion. “What the fuck?”

“Get out of my cab, faggots,” he swears. I stare at the guy in astonishment.

“It takes a man to take a cock,” Brendon says like it’s an automatic response, and then he flips off the driver and opens his door without arguing further, but I keep staring. The driver throws the money I gave him back at me. Like he won’t take it. Like he will not touch faggot money. “Out, do you hear me?!” He’s middle-aged and has a big moustache, and somehow he distantly looks like my father. “Don’t you push me,” he threatens when I don’t move. People don’t treat _me_ like this – they bruise their knees prostrating at the sight of me.

“Fuck you,” I hiss angrily. “Your job is to fucking drive, that’s it. Now, unless I’m sucking a guy off in your backseat, it’s _none_ of your –”

My door gets opened, Brendon grabbing my arm. “Just come on, it’s not fucking worth it.”

“If I had my gun, boy!” the driver swears.

“You fucking threatening me?!” I snarl, but Brendon’s pulling me out persistently. I get out and slam the door as hard as I can. The car takes off, speeding, my unwanted money still on the backseat. I stare after it in astonishment. “What a cunt. What a fucking cunt! Didn’t he know who I was?”

“We’ll get another one,” Brendon says dismissively, standing on the edge of the sidewalk on the lookout. The street is relatively quiet, business men types with briefcases hurrying to meetings. “And just a thought – try not to call me baby in the presence of the next driver, alright?” He doesn’t sound at all amused.

I scoff. I did not call him baby. Did I? And even if I did, which I didn’t, no one has the right to kick me out of their damn car because of it. Brendon’s not fazed, however. He’s used to this kind of treatment. I’m still trying to come to terms with it as something I’d have to live with, something I’d have to face were I ever to... in some alternative universe where it would be okay to be honest about it. But not this one.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Again. I’m just – William messed me up. He said these _things_ , and –”

“Don’t believe a damn word that he says, alright? If you’ve messed up my chances with that record deal now, I swear to god –”

“They will wait!” I bark. “I’ll say that it was my fault, and even some Columbia rep can respect that! Not many guys can walk into a label meeting with the current record chart number one, which you will, so stop worrying about it.”

A taxi’s coming down the street. Brendon reluctantly drops his arm. His cheeks have blushed slightly. Embarrassment. He exhales shakily, looking uncomfortable.

“Okay. Alright.” He fidgets. He never wanted me to know about the things William told me. “What did he tell you?”

“Did Shane really let you move in with him?” I ask. He sighs in a ‘here we go’ way, but nods, jaw set tight. So that’s true. “Did Shane pay off your debts too?” Another nod, more reluctant than the first. Buying Brendon’s love and gratitude. So cheap. I’ve never had to stoop that low. “And did Pete fuck you over with the money?” He nods again. Great… “I never knew Pete fucked you over. If I had, I – I would’ve told him to give you what was yours. I would have.”

“Let bygones be bygones,” he mutters, but it’s not gone. It’s present even now.

“Where did you work after I left?”

“This gay club. Bartending.” He shrugs dismissively.

“And did anyone...” I start. This is the hardest question, but it’s one that I have to ask. “Did anyone force themselves onto you?” He frowns at my question. “Did anyone _ever_?”

“No.”

“No? Because William said something about that club owner. I would kill him. You know that I would fucking kill him if he had.” The anger in my guts is dark, darker than anything I’ve ever felt. If anyone hurt him like that, if anyone – And I can’t even finish the thought, my brain short-circuiting. That part of me is too violent for me to want to connect with.

“You get a lot of arrogant guys in The Castro who think that anyone’s up for grabs. You learn to fend for yourself pretty quickly,” he says, but he’s avoiding my question and knows it. When I don’t look away, he sighs. “My boss was a well-known perv who only hired pretty boys and smacked our asses when walking by. He tried to talk me into sucking him off once, that’s it. I didn’t, for the record,” he adds, glancing at me like I could easily believe that he got on his knees for someone like that. “The comments were unpleasant, but I lived with it. William exaggerates, you know that,” he says, but do I really? William’s been giving me facts. Dramatising them slightly, sure, but they’re facts nonetheless. I would not even let suggestive comments slide, if someone came onto him after he’s said no. I ignore his ‘no’s all the time, okay, but that’s because he doesn’t mean them with me. Because William said it, didn’t he? That Brendon doesn’t know how to say no to me. And that’s because deep down, he doesn’t want to.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t... mean to leave you in a mess like that,” I say quietly.

“You were busy crashing the bus and then you took off to England,” he says, which accurately recaps what I did. We’ve never talked about this before, and I’ve never stopped to wonder if he knew who was driving, but clearly he did – William wouldn’t have lied to him about it.

I had to get out. Had to. I’d lost my band and my girlfriend and my best friend and him, and I had no idea why I was still alive. I came close then, before a survival instinct kicked in. I fled. It wasn’t dignified, but it saved me. As for him...

“You threw me out, Bren. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me. But if Shane... saved you.” The words are bitter on my tongue. “If he saved you, then I owe him for that. Then I’m grateful that he was there for you when I wasn’t. And I get that you feel indebted, I get that now. He’s done so much for you. He gave you a home, helped you back on your feet. And I get that it’s hard for you to walk away from that, that you don’t want to seem ungrateful, but... I’m back now. I’m back.”

“And you think that’s all there is to it?” he laughs.

Yeah. Pretty much.

No one gets through life without breaking someone’s heart.

I step closer to him carefully, and he doesn’t back away. I’d touch him but we’re in public, and he’d shy away from the touch quickly. “If you want me to say that I’m sorry about all of it, then okay: I’m sorry. But I would never do that to you again. I wouldn’t.”

He stares down at his shoes like he’s trying to process my words. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he says eventually. “I don’t feel like... I can trust you.”

“Try,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t let you down again.”

He looks unsure, but if he’s placed me as an option, like he has admitted that he has, then surely he’s slowly beginning to trust me again. I just need to keep proving it. For a day or two longer. God, I’m so sick of waiting.

A cab drives past us but then slows down rapidly. We both tense up. Maybe the fucker went to get his gun.

The back door opens, and Mike gets out. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks exasperatedly, like he cannot comprehend what is happening at all.

“Our cab broke down,” Brendon supplies.

“Well, get in here! We’re late!” He motions frantically.

Brendon casts a side glance at me, and I follow him. Figuring out how to feel constant for him, instead of being something that flickers like a mirage in his horizon.

* * *

It’s not what Brendon thought, but then again it never is: they want him in a band. The Columbia guy, Mark, says that Brendon’s got the rockstar babe looks, and he’s definitely got the talent, but it’s hard to market a solo artist right now. Vicky's guy Mike, on the other hand, turns out to be a pretty knowledgeable guy, stipulating this and that addition to Brendon’s contract. Both men seem intimidated by me when I throw in my own comments, trying to give Brendon as much room to manoeuvre as I can. I made mistakes, signed contracts asking too much of me: this many albums, this many tours, this much of my soul.

“You have a great sound,” Mark tells Brendon, buttering him up. “And if we just tweak it here and there, it will be easy to sell.”

“But if it’s already great, why do we need to tweak it?” Brendon asks. He’s sweaty and pale, pulling on his collar. He is not enjoying any of this: a semi-official meeting in Columbia’s LA branch, around a smart table with water-filled glasses in front of us.

“To make the sound greater!” Mark laughs. Suave label bastard. “And I know talented musicians who I think would form a great band with you. You’d be the star, don’t worry. We want _you_ singing those songs, you being the frontman, but I want to make sure you have a good band to work with.”

“My client has the right to refuse appointments made by the label,” Mike cuts in, looking up from the paperwork and holding a pen like it’s his lethal weapon.

“Well, Ian would obviously be in my band,” Brendon says, and Mark quirks an eyebrow. “My friend in New York. Amazing guitarist.”

“Okay. We could look into that.” Mark doesn’t sound happy. “Is he good-looking?”

Brendon frowns. Mark waves his hand like they can save that for later. “How many songs have you got finished?”

Brendon exhales, brows knitting together as he runs a hand through his hair. “Like... forty? And then a whole load of unfinished songs.”

“Forty?” I repeat in astonishment.

He glances at me briefly. “I’ve been writing music since I was fifteen, so yeah.”

When has he written these songs? I’ve seen him fiddling with guitars often enough, but I thought he was doing just that – fiddling. Not writing, although he must have been. He’s never offered to play them for me, has never asked for feedback. Like he’s been too shy or unsure.

“And how many out of the forty do you feel have potential?” Mark enquires.

“Maybe sixteen. The rest are older stuff that I don’t really like.”

Mark hums.

“My client has a final say on the track lists of his albums,” Mike now cuts in.

“I don’t think so,” Mark objects. “That should be negotiable.”

Mike’s eyes gleam. “I doubt that.”

It goes back and forth like this for half an hour, Mike and Mark twisting each other’s arms, me trying to twist both of theirs, and Brendon trying to keep his head. In the end, and because it’s inevitable, Brendon signs a record deal for three albums – he can opt out after two under certain conditions, and Columbia can also drop him after two if they’re not happy with the sales. He needs to get a band, and Mike and Mark agree that Brendon will meet with the label’s candidates too, and Brendon insists on Ian, because he wants the band to be real and not artificially put together.

The end result is the same: Brendon’s got a record deal with Columbia – anyone would die to be in his band. The part that I am most pleased with is that I manage to get time: Brendon is still on tour with us, and will be for all of summer. Columbia can’t have him until September.

At least I got that much.

“It’s a good deal,” Mike assures him when he gives Brendon the pen. Brendon looks at me from across the table, nervous and unsure. Mark holds his breath. I nod. It is a fair deal. Brendon signs it. Mark exhales.

There he goes.

A lot of hand shaking takes place after that, and Mike grins from ear to ear as we walk out of Columbia’s LA branch. He takes us out for lunch, all paid for by Asher Management, of course, and he orders us champagne in an expensive restaurant with mostly business men around us. Although Brendon is dressed up and I have a brown suede suit on, we get looks from the others, and I put my sunglasses on and keep my head low.

Mike gives a grand speech on how he is now Brendon’s bitch. Anything Brendon needs – he’s here for it. Vicky gave me the same speech once.

“And also,” Mike says, getting tipsy on the champagne. Brendon keeps smiling patiently, but is clearly overwhelmed. Mike grins at Brendon excitedly. “You need a new name!”

“Sorry?”

“Well, Brendon Urie will not do, will it? It’s so very...” His brows knit together. “Unrock ‘n roll. You sound like a Mormon.” He laughs. “No, no, you need something groovy. Something electric. I’ll let you have a think about that.”

He excuses himself and heads to men’s room. I’ve gotten out a cigarette, trying to keep my opinions to myself. Brendon’s looking my way, and I can tell that he’s trying to locate my eyes, so I push the sunglasses up to rest on my head.

He looks lost.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, just – I never thought getting a record deal would make me feel so unsure about the future.” He laughs sadly, trying to smile. He isn’t jumping up and down in a ‘I’ve just got a record deal’ way. He worries on his bottom lip. “Does he really want me to invent a new name for myself?”

“David Bowie, Bob Dylan, Elton John, Freddie Mercury, Elvis Costello, Cilla Black, and do I really need to keep going?”

“You didn’t have to change your name,” he protests.

“That’s because I was born to be a rock star,” I wink, trying to get him to relax a little. He can keep his first name – Brendon is unique enough. He just needs a cool sounding surname, maybe something musical, like Brendon Note or Brendon Drum, something that is obviously pretty fake but it’s okay because it suits him.

They can have his name if he can have his music. It seems fair enough.

He worriedly looks over his shoulder towards the men’s room. “I mean, this is amazing. A record deal with Columbia, getting represented by Vicky’s people. This is really amazing, more than I ever dreamed of, and I should be so happy right now, but I just –” He stops his rant to exhale heavily, clearly stressed. “It’s not what I had in mind. That’s all. But I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

“Welcome to the world of eternal compromise.”

I’m not going to tell him to rejoice because there is so much shit that comes with record deals, obligations that come with the contracts. He might be huge, he might be a failure. We can’t know. But if he goes in expecting the worst, then it’ll probably end up badly. I don’t want him to dread it.

“It’ll all work out,” I tell him softly, and he looks at me with hopeful eyes. “Trust me.”

The simple imperative bears much more weight than it normally would. He looks unsure.

Without meaning to, I reach over to touch a patch of skin under his left ear, to get him to relax. He leans into it, eyes fluttering shut. I rub my fingers in a circular motion and move them up an inch. His breathing hitches. His eyes fly open. His eyes are dark.

I pull my hand back and look out of the window. Trying to breathe evenly.

It’s automatic to touch him in those places I’ve only discovered from having had him.

He clears his throat quickly, ducking his head. I count seconds. Getting oxygen in feels difficult, my eyes hurting. He takes a large, large gulp of his champagne.

“So what did William tell you?” I ask after a while.

“That leaving Shane would be the biggest mistake of my life,” he responds instantly. His cheeks have a faint blush on them now, but he’s trying to shake it off.

“He only says that because he knows it’s me.”

“I know.” He shakes his head slightly. “I tried denying it.” He tries to say it like a good thing but it’s not. If he’s trying to choose between Shane and me but can’t tell his best friend that he’s involved with me, especially when William really knows? That’s not a good sign. “William didn’t have much good to say in general. Ranted about how fickle fags are, but Carl repeatedly cheats on him, so it’s a touchy subject. Men aren’t too good with the whole monogamy thing.”

“No kidding,” I say and motion back and forth between us. The corners of his mouth twist upwards, and that’s a point my way. I greedily suck in cigarette smoke as a more serious, almost pensive frown appears on his face.

“Could you?”

I close my eyes for a second because the light is beginning to hurt. My hand is trembling, so I quickly snub the cigarette in the ashtray, before he can see. “Could I what?”

“Be monogamous.”

He’s looking at me evenly. I’ve never been monogamous because I’ve never had to be. I’ve been expected to be by some, but their expectations did not mean that I _had_ to live up to them.

“I’ve never tried,” I say honestly. “But I could.”

I don’t add ‘for you’. If that’s a deal breaker, then okay. If that’s something that he wants. And the second I think it, I feel a pull in the bottom of my stomach. If I can have him all to myself. If he wants the same in return. Just us.

Fuck, when did monogamy become sexy? The sixties are clearly long gone. And there are people I’m attracted to, all the time, every day, people I would qualify for a fuck, but it never compares to the want I feel for him. Being there, in that moment with him, point of orgasm, when we’re one being. My skin heats up just from the thought of it, how addictive that is with him. Seeing him so far gone, feeling it myself.

I could reject all others for him.

We hold eye contact, and I want to say ‘Let’s start now’ – what the hell. But he hasn’t made up his mind yet, and the wait is getting to me. I just want him to say it already: that it’s me.

Mike slumps back into his chair, and I flinch. I pull my sunglasses back over my eyes as he picks up the conversation of how he thinks Brendon should cut his hair. Mike then says, “If you have any skeletons in your closet, tell me now because they will be dug up eventually. Ever murdered anyone?” He winks, but it’s not funny. Brendon’s paled. The boy’s made of secrets. Mike pours more champagne for everyone. “So any ideas for your new name?”

A sudden headache is coming on, pounding at my temples. I try to focus on their voices, but it becomes static noise, then a single high-pitched note, and I close my eyes and try to shake it off. I reach for my drink with a strong, good grip, I would think, but the glass slips through my fingers and crashes on the table.

Mike pushes back his chair, and I try to stand before the champagne spills all over me. I waver standing up so quickly, my legs not having the strength to carry me. I begin to fall backwards and I grab the table cloth for balance. The cloth comes off, bringing with it all the glasses and plates, the crashing sound loud and confusing. I don’t fall. I breathe hard and feel dizzy and nauseous with broken porcelain at my feet. Brendon’s arm is secure around my waist, and he’s pulling my arm around his shoulders and keeps steadying me as I lean into his side.

“Whoa, okay,” he says, sounding alarmed.

“Fuck, it just got so,” I say, try to explain, try to stand up properly but can’t.

“Is he alright?” Mike asks worriedly.

“We’re leaving,” Brendon says in a tone that no one can argue with. I notice the entire room of wealthy corporate bastards staring our way in disapproval. Brendon navigates us between the tables neatly, and I let my eyes close because he’ll get us out of here.

The spell of nauseating dizziness doesn’t start to fade until well into the cab drive. Mike yelled after us that he’d be in touch, getting the hotel numbers from Vicky. I feel embarrassed and stupid when breathing becomes easier, when the world comes back into view. My nose is runny and I’ve started sweating for no reason, and my fucking hands keep trembling, and I lean against the backseat and feel pathetic. I sure know how to charm a man.

“I’m sorry,” I manage.

“Don’t worry about it.” He’s staring at me with blatant concern.

“I feel better now. I do.” I close my eyes for a second and swallow hard. “You don’t need to look after me.”

“Stop being so damn proud,” he says but his tone is warm. It’s only when he squeezes my hand that I realise he is even holding it. He’s been trying so hard not to touch me these past few days.

I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the ride, feeling the episode pass. My body feels weak once more. I have no idea how I’ll live through the show tonight. Well, I will. I have to. There are no other options.

When the cab stops outside the hotel, Brendon gets money out before I can. When I try to protest, he says, “I just got a two grand advance on future sales. I can pay for this.” He says it like the amount of money is too huge for him to even comprehend, especially when he doesn’t even have a band yet. Brendon’s never really had money for extra things before. I’ve always had to twist his arm to accept things: a hotel room, studio time, room service, me.

I walk by myself, though he keeps hovering, like he’s ready to catch me should I suddenly collapse. Trying to walk straight at a normal pace is draining, but I don’t want him knowing how shitty I feel.

A message is waiting for him at the reception. He reads it quickly, telling me to wait up when I try to leave. “Shane,” he says, glancing up from the note. A warm smile is stretched across his lips. “He’s gone to the arena with the film crew. There’s a number so that I can call him right away.”

“You should call him, then,” I say. “I bet he’s dying to know how it went.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I’d say, though.”

“That you got a record deal with a major label.”

He smiles wider and with a bit more confidence. When we word it like that, it sounds as amazing as it is. He knows they’ll change him, and he’s reluctant to let them do that, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been given a shot at becoming a professional musician. Joe, Spencer, Brent and I were over the moon when we signed our first deal. By the time we signed to Capitol and Pete became our manager, I felt the sense of dread that Brendon can now sense hovering in the back of his mind.

The others won’t understand why he’s apprehensive about it – they’ll gush and tell him he’ll be famous and rich and fabulous, but he knows that it comes with a price on any kind of artistic integrity that he wishes he could hold onto. He knows what it means for his sexual orientation: it is not to be mentioned. He knows that he’s to be ogled by women, who have to think that he is available. He knows all of this. So do I. I doubt Shane does.

He just needs to put his foot down and not let them push him around. Not all artists are martyrs for their cause – some of us can do the music that we want to be doing, even if we have to change our names.

He folds the note, but not before I see it signed with ‘Love you’ and beneath it ‘Shane’ in neat handwriting. The reaction is physical, all of my insides twisting together so tightly that it hurts, a violent burn spreading into all of my bones. I clutch the reception counter and breathe hard and unevenly.

I jerk when his hand lands on my shoulder. “Hey,” he says gently, but that dizzying weakness is back. “You need to lie down.”

“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Stop saying you’re fine.”

I don’t want him seeing me like this. It’s just turning out to be a rough afternoon. It’s not like I’ve never suffered from withdrawals before.

When we get to my room, however, and I lie down on the bed, I realise how worn out I feel again, like I didn’t sleep all of yesterday. I kick off my shoes and leave my sunglasses on the nightstand, and he fusses but I tell him to go. I roll onto my side, away from him. This is something I have to suffer myself.

But he doesn’t leave. I keep shivering, my fingers crooking involuntarily, everything feeling cold. And I hate it when he lies down and spoons me from behind, hate it when his arm wraps around my waist, hate it when his head hooks on my shoulder, hate it when he begins to whisper, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine.” I hate that it works. I don’t know how much time passes, but the tremors pass, too, until I’m left feeling tired but coherent once more. Humiliated and useless.

He hasn’t gone.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, not sure if I want to know.

“The future.” His nose presses the skin just behind my ear. “The record deal. You. What Mike said. Everything.”

“Thought of any cool names?”

I feel him smile. “No.”

“It’ll be easier to hide behind a pseudonym.”

I say it to make him feel better, but he exhales heavily. “I never thought that far,” he says quietly. “If this music thing works out, if it – if it was successful, and I’m not saying it will be, but if it was... they would dig up my past, wouldn’t they? Find out where I’ve come from.”

They would. They’ve done it to me. I try to confuse them with interviews, give contradictory accounts of my past, and it’s still working pretty well, but they’re separating the facts from fiction better and better.

I say, “You can do a Jim Morrison and claim that your parents are dead. You’ve done it before.” His warmth disappears, his hand sliding off my stomach. I turn around, and he’s staring at the ceiling solemnly. “It’d take a while for them to track you down. Depends on how successful you are, how much they care. But they would eventually.”

“So the truth would come out,” he says. He gets a pained expression on his face. “Shane would find out.”

“Yeah. He would.”

He sighs and pulls Shane’s note out from his pocket. He looks at the number on it. He sighs again, eyes closing. His lips move but no sound comes out, but I can read it easily: ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He rises to rest on one elbow. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.”

I lie back down as he gets up, heading to the phone on the table. He picks it up, stretching the cord to the bathroom. He closes the door after himself the best that he can, and I try not to listen, try to tune out the words carrying from the slightly ajar door and across the room. He does this happy, embarrassed laugh when he finally gets Shane on the phone, and he seems unable to get a word in once he says that he got a deal. Shane must be so proud.

I sing songs in my head, focusing on breathing. I hear him say, “We don’t need to do anything special,” sounding abashed, and he says, “Can’t it just be the two of us tonight?”

I turn to lie on my side in hopes of falling asleep. I’m not needed at the venue until last minute as Vicky’s ordered as much rest for me as possible. And I want a moment of not being aware of this constantly changing balance of the scales.

“I want to talk. Well, about things, I just – We just need to talk.” He gives a short, defensive laugh. “That doesn’t sound ominous. No, it – I just have things to talk to you about. Okay? Okay.”

He talks to Shane for another few minutes, and I try to decipher his tone: reassuring, defensive, soothing, worried.

I stay still when he comes back, let him think I’m asleep. He says my name quietly, but I don’t respond. Go now. Leave me be. I’m too tired for this.

Then the bed dips behind my back. There’s no way that I’ll sleep when he’s near me.

“Don’t,” I say, and the movement stops. “Not unless you’ve made up your mind.”

He says nothing, certainly not exclaiming that he has made up his mind, he has, he has. Instead he says, “I thought you were going to give me time.”

“Until LA. So you could talk to William. You have now.”

He sighs heavily. I won’t be a pushover for all times to come. I’ve shown patience. Now I’m out of patience. I’m tired and my insides feel bruised and my body feels weak, and Shane signs things with ‘Love you’ and it makes him smile, and I feel like such an idiot in all of this.

“I’m going to talk to Shane tonight.”

“About what?”

“Things I haven’t told him.”

He isn’t even owning up to some of his lies out of free will. It’s only because he has to.

“Are you telling him about us?” I ask demandingly. His silence is answer enough. I roll onto my back and stare at him angrily. “Why the fuck are you stringing me along?”

“I’m n –”

“You are. I feel like that fucking Dusty Springfield song where I keep wishing and hoping like some fucking chick. You know I could have anyone, right? But I want you. I keep waiting for _you_.”

“It’s not easy for me!” he objects. “No matter what I do at this point, I’ll hurt Shane, and he doesn’t deserve –”

“ _I_ don’t deserve this!” The exclamation is draining, and he looks hurt by my comment. I reach for his hand to keep up the illusion of me having a hold on him, but he pulls his hand back instantly. He ducks his head and that blush on his cheeks from before is back. “Why are you so afraid of letting me touch you?” I ask quietly, studying his alarmed and confused expression.

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s all sunshine and roses if you cuddle me, like you don’t think that messes me up, but you won’t even let me...” I trail off, angered.

He seems restless and tense, and he sighs, defeated. “Maybe I should go.”

He moves as if to leave, but I grab his wrist firmly, tightening the hold so much that it’s got to hurt. His eyes meet mine – still worried and unsure, but beneath that... wishing and hoping, thinking and praying. “Ry.” His tone is warning. I know he’s confused. I know, I know.

I move to sit up on the bed until we’re face to face. “I’m going to kiss you now,” I whisper, in order to test him – and it works. He doesn’t move away. He stares at me in a mix of fear and fascination, like he wants to see this through but is terrified of what it’ll mean. I lean in slowly, with plenty of time for him to protest or claim that this isn’t what he wants. I tilt my head, let my lips hover over his. His shallow breathing washes over my lips, and his eyelids have fluttered shut. He’s waiting with baited breath.

Our lips press together, dry and gentle. His lips are soft in the way that I remember, as intoxicating as they ever have been. He trembles. I pull back, then, because I’m the one who should be shivering, my body full of dissolving chemicals. “Bren?” I ask quietly. He’s breathing fast, blinking too much, cheeks too red. I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing over his cheek bone. “Hey.”

He swallows hard, eyes cast downwards. “I just feel so...” His hand lifts to carefully touch my hair, hesitating. His fingers are trembling. “Torn open. Whenever you touch me these days.” He meets my gaze reluctantly.

“Why is that a bad thing?” I ask, trying to figure out if this means the same thing for both of us, if a kiss is just a kiss, or if it’s so much more than that. If, for him, it’s a promise.

His eyes flicker between my eyes and my lips, like he shouldn’t, but then he makes a decision. He decides. And when _he_ leans in and kisses me, I clutch his arm and pull him closer, lying back down, pulling him on top, and let us fall into each other.

Our movements are unrushed like we have forever, and exploratory like we’ve never touched each other before. I move on top of him on the bed, pin him beneath me. Our bodies press together, and I yearn to be closer than this. He’s pliant, responding but not initiating. That’s fine by me. We kiss hungrily, like we’re trying to recover a hidden truth from each other’s lips.

I palm him through his black slacks, working him up slowly, feeling his cock getting harder and harder until the outline of his erection is bulging, running along his left thigh. I kiss the hollow of his throat and squeeze his cock. He jerks and says my name restlessly. It’s music to my ears.

I move down on his body, placing kisses on his shirt, pulling the hem out of his slacks. “Ryan, maybe we shouldn’t,” he breathes out, his voice rough. “Maybe we...”

I unzip him, push his shirt up, and kiss his navel slowly. He swears and says, “Oh god, oh Christ.” I kiss my way down his lower stomach, my nose brushing his skin. I yank his slacks down to his knees, and his cock is suddenly vertical and in front of me. He’s not wearing underwear, either because the slacks are such a tight fit that the brief outline would have looked bad or he’s simply out of clean underwear, being on tour after all, but all I can think of is his cock brushing the bare fabric of his slacks when he walks, how fucking sexy that is. He’s hard. He is really fucking hard.

I kiss the tip of his cock, letting my tongue swirl around it to trace his taste. He lets out such a turned on, helpless sound that my body thrums in response. I get pre-come on my tongue. I love his taste. Love it, love it, love it. Fuck.

He helps me get his slacks off the rest of the way, kicking his legs. My hands run up his bared shins to his knees, pushing them apart. The hair on his legs gets thinner higher up, and I love the way it feels. He’s still got his shirt on, his flushed cock against the maroon.

Shane’s at the venue with the crew. Brendon’s in my hotel room, in my bed, spread out beneath me, gorgeous and beautiful and having made a decision.

I feel so full of emotions that I can’t stand it. It all swells up and burns and scorches and soothes, urgent and calm at the same time. I can’t stop touching him, feeling him react and suck in air. I kiss his hipbones, pushing his shirt up, feeling his cock brushing against my shirt. When I bite down on his skin, his hands move to my hair. His hips shift so restlessly, and the _sounds_ that he makes burn into my memory. I’ll never be able to forget.

My suitcase is open by the bed, the clothes a mess from my search earlier today, and a white and blue tube is just beneath a sweat covered stage shirt. I pick up the lube quickly and move up on the bed to capture his swollen lips. He’s been biting on them. He kisses back fervently, fisting my hair. “Ryan, fucking hell,” he says, and he trembles, but that’s okay, that’s alright, I’ve got this all figured out. I sort of do. I think.

I settle down next to him, lying on my side, and I keep eye contact with him when I reach down with lube covered fingers. He spreads his legs willingly, his eyelids fluttering shut. My wet fingers reach between his legs, over his perineum and to his hole. His mouth drops open when I touch him there. He bucks his hips. “Please.”

He’s so beautiful when he asks.

I push two fingers into him, staring down the bed, the planes of his body, my arm reaching down between his legs. He’s tight and hot around my digits, tighter than I thought, and I kiss his ear and thank my lucky stars. It’s been a while for him. Thank god. Thank god because the thought of someone else getting to see him like this drives me mad.

I kiss him hungrily, but he’s too busy trying to breathe for it to work. His pupils are blown, and he’s staring at the ceiling, face flashing with bliss, showing everything he feels as I finger him. All the pleasure and how intense it is. He clutches my shoulder like a drowning man at a straw.

I pull my fingers out, and he flinches slightly. I rub him there, slowly, letting him calm down. The skin feels wet from lube, and I know what it looks like, his pink, tight hole, lubricated, the way the skin there is tight first, then how it gives way, how it relaxes, stretching for fingers or cock. I push the two back in again, past the first ring of tight muscle, sinking into his warmth. He groans, his body wired. I love touching him there.

Our mouths move over each other’s, wet and slow. He reaches down to slowly stroke his cock.

“Could do this for hours,” I tell him, pushing my fingers in deeper. He jerks and moans. “You want a third?”

“Fuck,” he hisses. I crook my fingers, and he lets out a helpless groan, going so slack on the bed even as his body is full of unreleased energy. I press kisses to his mouth, our swollen lips getting more swollen. The room gets filled from our heavy breathing and from the wet sounds my fingers make when they push into him.

“I want you,” he sighs. Both of his hands are down there, the other cupping his balls, the other stroking himself. Seeing him touching himself – because he has to, because he can’t stand the pleasure – makes my cock throb and my guts flare up.

I brush my head against his. “Want me to what?”

“Want you to kiss me,” he says, and I kiss him. I am utterly incapable of not kissing him. “Want you inside me.”

I close my eyes. My heart skips a beat.

Fuck.

“Yeah,” I breathe out, crooking my fingers again before pulling them out. Please. Please, please, please.

We kiss fiercely as I unbuckle myself with shaking hands, and his hands are on my fly, zipping me down. He pulls at my clothes until we get my pants and underwear down. We’ve been so patient, for years, but now a desperate urgency fills my bones. He pulls me closer, having decided to participate, and we kiss and we kiss and we kiss as I move on top of him, move between his legs that he spreads wide.

I’m mostly dressed, my pants and underwear down to my knees and that’s it. It doesn’t matter. He feels the urgency of it, too, the need to be one being, one entity. His hand is between us, guiding me to his hole. He groans against my mouth, to the tune of ‘please’, and I will, of course, baby, baby, I will.

My body tenses up when the sensitive head of my cock pushes against his entrance. We’re pressed together otherwise, stomach to stomach and chest to chest, and I kiss his jaw and his neck, full of emotions no one’s been able to name yet. He’s restless and willing and mine. I slowly push forwards. I love the resistance there, his little gasp, I love the way I can thrust my hips and get him to open up for me, the way he feels. I love the way my cock sinks into his tight heat.

He clutches the back of my neck, nails digging in. “Oh god, oh fuck,” he slurs like he can’t stand it. He’s tight. He’s never been fucked before. He hasn’t, and I’ve never fucked before either, we can be virgins if we choose to be, we can erase all those other fucks, even the sublime ones. Because they didn’t feel like this.

He lets out a gorgeous, high pitched ‘ah’ when I finally am in all the way. I pull back slowly, feeling the drag, and then push back in again. Another gasp. It’s too intense to take, and I swear heavily and move to suck on his neck. I start working on a bruise, the kind that he won’t be able to hide, just over his vein, to kiss the life in his blood. And it’ll be there and obvious and everyone will see it, and we both know it, but he lets me. He usually tells me not to. Marks, scratches, telltale signs – Don’t, he’ll notice, not there, be gentle –

He lets me. He cranes his neck further, letting out restless gasps, small whimpers. He lets me.

We begin to fuck, both shifting our hips to find the right angle that’s so familiar and sweet and hot, most of all hot. He’s bucking up to meet me. The movement starts from his hips, rippling the skin of his stomach, my cock sinking into him further when he offers himself. The pace is steady, impatient. We know what we’re doing. We’re good at this. We breathe into each other’s mouths, kissing, wet tongues meeting. When I push in really fucking hard, he groans, head tilting back because it hurts just right. I try to get in deeper than ever before, and his thighs fall apart further because he wants it.

My shirt is clinging onto my back from the sweat that is building up, and I finally decide that it’s in the way. I halt for a second, buried so deep in him, and try to undo my shirt with one hand. He tries to catch his breath and moves to help with clumsy fingers. He’s sweaty and flushed, and his muscles squeeze around me steadily, so wired up. Stupid shirt, stupid buttons –

We push my shirt out of the way, and he pulls my undershirt over my head, and then his hands are on my bare back, my uncovered shoulders, touching everywhere. His touches flow straight to my chest, making it hard to breathe. His touch feels like a claim.

“Bren,” I whisper, and then, “Bren, Bren.” I fall back into him, finding a rhythm again, kissing him wherever I can reach. Our hips move hard, and his skin is salty everywhere. Everywhere. Him and this place and this life. “I love you,” I say when our lips brush together. I fuck him harder, now feeling the tip of his leaking cock against my lower stomach. It smears the body hair that I have there, making my skin slick. Sweat rolls down my back, down the curve of my spine. It’s hot and hard, our bodies slamming together. “I love you,” I say again because it’s the only coherent thought running through my head, it’s all I can fucking feel.

He nods, then, pressing our lips together. He nods frantically, and I grab his hips and fuck him harder, taking him like he wants me to. His moans turn into loud gasps, a repeated “Oh god, oh god”. He pulls on me hard enough to bruise my arms. The bed moves, and he reaches between us to touch himself.

He bites my neck, muffling himself, his body drawn up so tight as he’s about to come. I quickly pull on his hair to pull him back, to see him, and I just catch the moment his pupils get blown and his mouth drops open. He comes hard, back arching, come spilling between us. His muscles grip onto my cock in a way that should hurt, but I only fuck the tight heat, pleasure radiating up and down my spine.

He’s still coming when I follow. The climax hits me hard, and I freeze above him although my hips keep thrusting. My loud groan is graceless, awed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Want to come so deep inside him, want to fill him up. I ride it out, erratic, uncoordinated thrusts. He trembles beneath me, fisting his cock, his knuckles white with come, and I collapse on him. We breathe into each other’s mouths. My toes crook, and my skin flashes with ecstasy. It lasts for a long time, and he and I die a little. I don’t understand this. I can’t.

Our mouths press together. He tastes like me. His hands move to my shoulders, then wrap around my neck.

When I look at him, he looks different. I’ve never seen this look in his eyes before. His pupils are so, so blown, like something has shifted, and he feels closer. Like the look in his eyes is the core beyond dozens of walls, the ones I’ve spent years trying to smash down.

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I feel him shivering. I shift to lie on my side, keeping him in my arms, his leg now thrown over my hips. My cock almost slides out of him all the way, but not quite. I wrap my arms tight around him, carding his hair. He trembles, trying to breathe out evenly.

“I’m here,” I whisper. I’m here, I’m here. He’s shaken up, and I don’t fully understand any of this, but that’s okay. I’m here, and it’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out together.

My skin feels wet where he’s hiding his head. Sweat. Maybe. Maybe not.

I won’t call him out on it in either case.

My nose brushes against the top of his head as I nuzzle him, breathing him in. And as lost as I am in this, a faint voice keeps reminding me of the one thing I still have to defeat.

“It’s time you tell him the truth,” I say when I manage to find my voice.

He exhales shakily and burrows into me further. “Yeah. But which one?”


	6. What Drugs Do

Las Vegas, the fictive city of flashing lights, of whores and gamblers and coin slot machines. Las Vegas, where Elvis used to shake his groovy thing but is now rotting away somewhere, rolling in layers of fat and reaching for the syringe with chubby fingers. Las Vegas, the glorious city of short-lived dreams.

The name means The Meadows, which is a laugh. I never saw anything green in the city at all. It’s all desert sun and desert air and showgirls and mafia goons, and a young, young me cycling down our shitty street in a shitty neighbourhood to a shitty house and a shitty life.

As the plane lands, it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. We’re staying in a luxury hotel on The Strip, far from the small suburban houses. I cannot relate to my adolescent self at all.

But it hardly brings me down. If we can slip away, I’ll show him all the places and corners and nooks, and that worried smile of his will go away. It’s not his fault that Shane got stone drunk that night, throwing Brendon a party in the tour bus, and that Brendon never got to dump him. And it’s not his fault that when he tried to talk to Shane yesterday, Shane got upset before Brendon ever even get into the part of him and me.

Shane got riled up right about where he and Brendon cease to exist on record because of Brendon’s record deal. Brendon doesn’t want the label to know at all – Mike knows because Vicky told him, but apart from Brendon’s manager, no one else should ever know that Brendon’s gay. Even _I_ thought that Shane would understand, shoving his relationship with Brendon aside to advance his career at every opportunity, but Shane didn’t. Something about being cast aside or becoming a nasty secret. And then.

Brendon was leading it into dumping Shane, of course. This is self-evident. But he never got that far.

I love seeing that bruise on Brendon’s neck. He can’t hide it. He tried the popped collar approach, the scarf approach, pretty sure he put make up over it, but Shane saw it. He saw it, and it fills me with intense joy, even if Brendon claimed that Shane himself left it there – he was just so drunk that he doesn’t remember. It was a semi-awkward situation, getting caught eavesdropping in the hotel corridor when Shane stormed out right after that. Shane’s eyes met mine – hurt and confusion – and I just asked which floor I was on and walked away.

I don’t think Brendon knows if Shane bought it or not. I don’t think Shane knows if he bought it or not. And I just and just get that Brendon didn’t want to tell Shane the truth of him and me right then and there – maybe that would have been too harsh. There are nicer ways of dumping a boyfriend.

As we get into the limos that are taking us from the airport to the hotel, fans gathered beyond a fence and yelling and waving at us, Shane makes a beeline for the first limo, leaving Brendon behind.

Brendon stops, staring after Shane with a hollow expression, like he’s not sure where he’s supposed to go.

I know that break-ups are unpleasant, but Brendon needs to make a clean break. It won’t be as bad as he’s thinking it’ll be. He’ll see.

Today is the day of all days.

The sun is high up over Vegas, barely noon, and we’ve arrived. I’ve come back.

Las Vegas, city of wonders, I’m pleased to meet you. Las Vegas, with your scattered wedding chapels, let me come in because I’ve got a lover to marry. Las Vegas, let me blind you this time around.

And I’ll replace a thousand shitty memories with two good ones.

That’s all it’ll take.

Brendon looks after Shane’s limo like a man watching the last ship to the New World departing. He needs to cheer up.

“Come on,” I tell him, nudging him as I pass him. He jerks, looking at me with wide eyes like he didn’t realise I was right behind him. He ducks his head, abashed, but follows.

We get in the last limo, Vicky and Gabe already seated on one side. Gabe’s nodding off like he was on the plane, having partied all night again. Brendon seems tense, glancing around almost guiltily. I yearn for him.

The car takes off, and Vicky is looking at her diary and reading out my schedule for me, meetings and interviews. Fans bang the windows when we get to the gates, and lights flash even though they can’t see us. I relax into the seat, listening to Vicky’s monotonous voice absently. I place my hand on Brendon’s knee.

Brendon’s hand moves over mine, and warmth spreads in me. Small touches, small looks. He lifts my hand off, however, his shoulders tense. I don’t let go of his hand, looking at him questioningly, and his eyes dart towards Vicky and Gabe in a ‘ _people, Ryan_ ’ way, clearly alarmed.

But doesn’t he know that we’ve moved beyond that now?

A strand of hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and I reach over to brush it aside. His eyes widen in almost horror. “Would you stop?” he asks so quietly that I can barely hear him. Vicky’s still reading the timetable aloud.

“Why would I?” I counter, and when he tries to say something in return, I capture his lips in a kiss. He’s not expecting it, and he stills perfectly. I kiss him softly, a hey and good morning and goodnight and god, I didn’t get to kiss you yesterday. Our noses brush together when I pull back, contentment buzzing in me steadily, filling me with something I don’t think I’ve ever felt: purpose. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him slightly closer to me on the seat. He looks startled, and when I find the ability to not gaze at him dreamily, I notice that my manager and a suddenly awake looking Gabe are staring at us.

“What?” I ask. What? Come on, I dare you. What?

“Nothing,” Vicky says, but her voice is shrill and her eyes are wide. It occurs to me that it’s the first time she’s seen Brendon and me actually act on our feelings.

“No, not nothing,” Gabe now says, sounding irritated. He looks between us, his brown eyes brooding beneath knitted eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you guys break up?”

“And aren’t you still dating Shane?” Vicky now adds, her disapproval aimed at Brendon.

“I mean, refresh my memory for me – wasn’t it supposed to be _over_?” Gabe goes on, and Vicky nods like the two of them suddenly form a unified front.

Who remembers the past? It’s all gone now. No, no, we’re not remembering those things.

“Fuck,” Brendon breathes out, barely audibly.

“We had a misunderstanding. Now back off,” I bark, annoyed that they’re getting to my boy, who’s now as stiff as a board and is intently staring at his shoes with reddened cheeks. Vicky and Gabe exchange long looks, saying silent words I can’t even begin to imagine. “Also, make Jon do the last of my interviews. I want to show Bren around Vegas.”

Vicky looks annoyed further, but I stare her down. She better do what I say if she knows what’s good for her.

Brendon glances at me. “So Vicky knows too, huh?”

“Of course I know,” Vicky cuts in. “I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Hey, I told you to lay off,” I tell my manager, who lifts her hands defensively and rolls her eyes. Brendon’s worrying on his bottom lip. My gaze fixes on it for a second – god, his lips – but then I smile at him warmly. “Get used to it. Soon enough a handful of our friends will know.”

“Oh,” Vicky says. “Is it going to be official?” Something in her tone is mocking, and I shoot daggers at her. “Shouldn’t someone, you know, tell Shane?”

“That’ll be a fun rest of the tour,” Gabe mutters, sinking into his seat lifelessly.

“Shane will probably quit,” I say, which he probably will. I don’t care. I really don’t. “And this is where you two don’t say another word. It only concerns us.”

“But it affects all of us,” Vicky says sternly, but she doesn’t criticise further. I know Brendon and I have been a mess, I know that _I’ve_ been a mess. But I’m still off codeine, still feeling like shit, but it’s getting better all the time. It’s worth it. It’s really worth it.

Brendon’s deadly silent, and fuck those two for being cunts to him.

“Well,” Gabe says eventually. His smile looks forced. “Congratulations, Brendon. Looks like you’ve won the grand prize.”

Brendon flinches and says nothing. Vicky drops her gaze and stares at her knees. Brendon is nervously picking on a loose thread on his pants.

I smile broadly. “Not like there was ever any competition, right?”

Brendon stills when I briefly brush his hair, and Vicky and Gabe both look away.

* * *

I order myself a black coffee and light a cigarette. I’m allowed to smoke here now. It’s not called Eddie’s anymore and it’s no longer in the outskirts of Downtown, but rather it’s become a part of it and is called Luck Café or something along the lines to fit the overall theme of gambling.

I’ll show him Downtown first – the first bar I got into, the first alleyway I got a blowjob in when I was sixteen. I don’t know why this suddenly feels important, to show him these places that I haven’t thought of since I left.

But that’s why. If I pass them on, they won’t haunt me anymore.

He’s the only person who needs to understand where I’m coming from.

The girl brings me my cup of coffee. I look out of the window and impatiently wait for Brendon to show up, keeping my eye on the taxis. I was late coming here because of boring interviews, and he is even later. I haven’t talked to him since this morning, but I assume that Vicky called the arena like I told her to. He and I have hardly had exclusive time since the second night in LA. I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I smile into my cup of coffee. These are the days to be alive, my friend, my city, my life.

I keep smoking languidly, then a bit less languidly, then anxiously, then a bit more anxiously. I get the feeling I’m being stood up when my coffee’s gone and my cigarette’s a stub. Maybe Vicky messed it up somehow, gave the wrong address. Maybe she did it out of spite. I didn’t know the café had changed its name. We used to come in here every Friday for a milkshake.

I look around the place in boredom and then stop. We used to sit over there, in that corner booth. Where that man is now sitting, reading a newspaper. He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt and has hair that’s this very, very specific brown colour – not as dark as Brendon’s but clearly darker than mine, this exact shade, and he’s hunched over the paper in this specific way, and it’s a dozen déjà vus in a single frame. He turns a page and looks up briefly. He stills.

We stare at each other from across the café. I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Do I get up and leave? Do I pretend I haven’t seen him? He might not recognise me – big sunglasses, always good to keep them on.

“Ryan?” he asks, voice sounding faint

Too late now. Too late to run for it. He’s recognised me. Of course he has.

“Uh. Hey.” I lift my hand and take my sunglasses off with the other. He looks surprised. I expect that I mirror him there.

“Hey.”

I hesitate for a second, but having a conversation across the café seems like a stupid idea. I stand up and walk over to him, and he sits up straighter, eyes on me, and then he stands up when I get there. He’s grown a moustache since the last time – when was the last time? The hospital? No. When he came to pick up some of his stuff from my place because Cincinnati was far away and he wouldn’t be back anytime soon? I think so. There is something so familiar to his face and eyes and mouth, all belonging to some long forgotten world of small venues and small crowds and not getting recognised and drinking with my band – my best friends – until sunrise. He’s an apparition of an old life in the city where I once lived.

“Hi,” I repeat, stupidly.

He says, “Hey.”

We stare, it’s awkward, and then – then he breaks into a smile. And he’s got these _smiles_ , these icebreaking flashes of white teeth. And I smile back because fuck, fucking hell, and I laugh out of embarrassment, and he grins, and I grin, and then we hug. He pats my back and says, “Still a skinny fucking thing, aren’t you?”

“One of us needs to be,” I return because domestic life has seen him gaining on a bit. We let each other go, but he keeps a hand on my shoulder, looking pleasantly surprised. I try to get over how surreal this feels, but I’m not asleep and I’m not on drugs, so this is actually happening. “Fuck, what are you doing here?” I ask because I did not expect him to be in Las Vegas, let alone in our old café.

“Visiting Mom,” he says, now letting me go, and I follow his lead as he sits down.

“Yeah?” I ask eagerly, suddenly so interested in everything that he has been up to all this time. “Fuck. How is Ginger? Haven’t seen her in years.”

He smiles. “She’s good.”

“Yeah? Good. That’s good.” I laugh nervously. “Still hates my guts?”

“You’d think that,” he says, smirking, “but she gets excited whenever she hears your name on the radio. She’s gotten kind of nostalgic with old age, even if she persists that you ruined me and, what is it... stole my youth, yeah. That’s what she says.”

“That’s far out,” I laugh. I then add, “I’m here to play a show,” to explain my own presence.

“Yeah, I know. Got a ticket.”

He does? “You don’t need a ticket,” I say, the thought of him acquiring one baffling me. “You could’ve just called me.”

“I don’t have your number,” he says, and that’s when the first layer of boyish excitement wears off. He doesn’t sound accusatory, more factual, and that’s worse because it’s the truth. Of course he doesn’t have my number. I don’t have his either. He didn’t even leave an address when he left for Cincinnati, and I didn’t go to any particular lengths to give out my address to my former friends when I bought my SoHo apartment. We consciously disappeared from each other’s lives. He said that he wasn’t my friend anymore. His exact words. He seems to be remembering these unpleasantries too as he quickly says, “Well, you look good.”

“You look old.”

“Look who’s talking,” he smirks, but that’s bullshit, I don’t look a day over twenty-one. “I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, motioning around. “I thought you’d be hanging out at some private party with famous people.”

“Maybe I am,” I say, and I don’t mean to be kissing his ass but he _is_ one of the best drummers of our generation. What is he doing in this café? It’s out of his way if he’s staying with his mother. Nostalgia. Maybe. Nostalgia has brought us both down to this old damn place on the same day at the same time. Now that’s not fate – it’s pure chance. But it’s very, very rare pure chance. “I could be at some party,” I then amend. “You know how it is, constant invitations flowing in. Busy, busy. Life’s great, really. Never been this rich or famous.” I sound like an asshole, but I don’t want him thinking I’m the mess that I was the last time he saw me. I survived, I prevailed, even without his help. He just gets this look on his face, and it’s his ‘those things don’t measure up a good life’ look, the one he gave Joe or Brent when they raved on about fame being happiness. But he should not for a second think that my life is anything but amazing.

“Were you going to tell me you’d be coming to the show?” I then ask.

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “In case you’d tell me to fuck off. Who knows? Just wanted to check out the new band, you know? Didn’t want it to be this _thing_.”

The thought of him coming to the show and leaving just as silently hurts somehow. Like he’s allowed to do that, check up on me, get glimpses of me, but I don’t get to do that in return. That’s not fair.

“I’m just curious, man,” he then says like he needs to explain it. “Clearly it’s going alright.” He eyes the tour pass hanging around my neck.

“Yeah, sold out shows and all. Europe next month.”

“And the band?”

“The band’s superb.”

“And the album’s number one. Well done.”

I cannot tell for sure if he’s sincere or not.

“Thanks.” I want to ask him if he liked it, but then don’t. I wrote a few songs about him, and at least one made the album. Again I’m left wondering how obvious the lyrics were. The conversation seems to die a little then, and I have nothing to do with my hands so I keep them by the table, feeling too official. “You can come backstage tonight, meet the guys,” I offer. “If you’re not busy. I was planning to do a little Vegas tour with Bren before heading to the venue, but I think I’ve been stood up.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Bren as in Brendon?” he clarifies, and of course he wouldn’t know about that or any of it. He didn’t approve of it back then either.

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” he says, trying to take this in. I can tell that he’s got so many questions running through his head, and I wonder where I’d even start. “So he’s still around, huh?”

I don’t mind telling it to Vicky or Gabe or any of those guys about Brendon and me – that’s just how things are and they better deal with it or fuck off – but Spencer. Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. He’s different. His condemnation bears weight. It always did. And I feel reluctant and nervous when I say, “Brendon is still around, yeah.” And to throw in the ultimatum, “And he is going to be around.”

He stares at the table hard. “Last I heard you were dating a dancer.”

“She danced away.”

A quick glance at me. “And you dance both ways?”

I try to keep my calm. What if he gets up and leaves? What if he...?

“These days, yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

He taps the table without realising it. A drummer’s rhythm. “I gotta admit, that’s still weird to me, man. We spent hours obsessing over chicks when we were kids, you know? Talk about the ideal girl and how we’d like to get some, and when we were getting some we’d talk about how we were getting it, girls in different shapes and sizes. I was so used to you being this certain way, you know? Still am. Thought maybe it was just a phase or just him.”

“I thought the same thing about your wife,” I counter, my eyes landing on the wedding band on his left ring finger. I wonder if he has more kids. What if he and Haley have had more kids, and I haven’t even known? I should know something like that. _I_ should know if Spencer Smith becomes a father, but I wouldn’t have known these past few years, and that’s his fault. That’s my fault. I bet our younger selves wouldn’t have seen that one coming. “How old is your kid now?”

“Suzie just turned three.” He smiles a shy but proud smile. He doesn’t mention any other kids. Good. Neither does he pull out a picture from his wallet or babble about how well she can speak these days. Also good. I thought he wouldn’t shut up about Suzie once I mentioned her, but instead he asks, “So when did you get back in touch with Brendon, then?”

Clearly he thinks this takes priority.

“Late last year.”

“And you guys...?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Yeah. We’re kind of great, actually.” And the second I say it, I realise it’s true. We are. It’s all lined up for the future – he’ll tour with me, I’ll tour with him, we’ll figure it out. And I must get this stupid smile on my face because Spencer looks slightly flabbergasted and then laughs disbelievingly. But not in a deprecating way.

“Well... that’s. That’s good. I guess.” He smiles slightly. A ton of weight gets lifted off of me. I’m not sure if what he’s showing is approval but it is acceptance, and I’ve been standing still for two years waiting for it. Ever since he had a go at me and told me it was sick. That I was sick because of it. But I could make a long list of all the shitty things I’ve said to him in return, and maybe that plus a long, long silence makes us roughly even. “Looks like you’ve got your life sorted out,” he says before staring at me evenly. “So how long are you in town for?”

“Not long at all. We’re leaving for Phoenix tomorrow morning.”

He hums, nodding. He gets this serious look on his face, the one he always used for bad news. “So don’t you think there’s someone you should go see?”

Turns out that he’s still not sick of playing my conscience.

* * *

“I don’t want to do this,” I tell him. “This is pointless. This is useless.”

It is, too. What will this prove? That I’m the bigger person or that I’m a masochist?

He pushes me in further regardless, and I get swallowed up by the white walls and white floors. I feel sick. It’s withdrawal, I tell myself, my good old friend withdrawal and nothing else.

“You can do it,” he says, prepping me like a coach. The middle-aged woman behind the desk looks at me. I’ve stuffed my hands into my pockets and have my shoulders hunched. People are coughing in the corridors, sneezing and spreading germs.

“Can I help you?” she asks impatiently. Spencer keeps hovering over my shoulder.

He’s somewhere in this building. Somewhere above those floors. _I_ wasn’t supposed to be coming back. I did the walking away, remember? Not me. No, no, you wouldn’t see me. My boots were made for walking.

Maybe it’s time I show him just how far away I walked. Maybe Spencer is right: this is something that’s long overdue.

“I’m looking for George Ross Junior.”

The receptionist opens up a thick book, finger pressed to the page, and starts going through a long list of names. She flips through a few pages and then comes to a stop. “Ah.” She looks up. “And you are?”

“George Ross III.”

She looks surprised, and I feel equally foreign and out of place.

When we get to the right floor, Spencer points to a waiting area and says that he’ll be there. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, but it’s easy for him. It’s not his father, it’s not the life he refused to live.

The corridor feels like the longest one I have ever seen. An ache spreads from my chest to all of my bones, an uncomfortable, restless feeling. I haven’t seen him in seven years now. I preferred it that way.

What do I say?

There is nothing I can say.

Some doors are open, showing patients lying in bed, some of them looking deader than others. There’s a smell in the air – pills and urine and bleach – unpleasant and making me want to run the other way. When I get to the right door, it’s closed. I stand outside it, looking around me. An empty gurney is standing not too far from me, pushed against the wall. A nurse is walking at the other end of the corridor in a white dress and a white hat, looking professional. I push my sunglasses into my breast pocket. Card my hair slightly. Check my breath out of habit – god forbid if I smoked or drank, god forbid. He gave me hell for that, confiscated my beer and helped himself to it.

I open the door to a small hospital room.

A man is lying on the bed. Not even a man but a body. A body with greying hair and puffy red cheeks. A tamed lion.

It’s not what I expect. I was expecting something more... powerful. Something less pathetic. Something, someone, with a lot of guts.

Not an old man dying in a hospital bed.

I expect to be noticed, but I’m not. Nothing new there. I walk in, leaving the door ajar to have an escape plan if need be, if he’s just pretending to be this frail thing and is about to launch on me. A steady beeping sounds from the machines around his bed. He’s got his eyes closed. He’s lying in an unnatural way, his arms straight on his sides on top of the covers. His chest rises and falls. A tube is going into his mouth.

He looks small. He’s just vanished somehow. He’s lost so much weight that it’s hard to recognise him, hard to connect this feeble man with the towering presence of the father of my youth. There are no flowers in his room, the way there were in some of the other rooms. I expected his room to be bigger. I’m paying for him to have a room to himself, aren’t I? I thought it’d be bigger. I thought he’d be smoking cigarettes and boozing it up and harassing the nurses and laughing on his way to hell.

I didn’t realise. I didn’t think.

Hey, what do you know? He’s really dying.

A single chair is by his bed, and I sit down and exhale. The beeping continues. Every four seconds. Beep – two – three – four –

Beep – two – three – four –

Beep – two – three – four –

“Hey.” No reaction. “Can you hear me?”

I watch his face intently. He’s clean shaven, which is another first. I’m used to a bushy moustache on his upper lip. I guess they keep him shaved here. They bathe him and they dress him and they make sure he pisses and shits. All that wrath in him, all of it. He was just talk. All talk.

It’s taken me nearly twenty-six years to realise this.

“I guess it’s good someone’s finally gagged you,” I say, almost to test him because this is the point where he’d tell me to mind my words, boy. But he remains unmoving.

I lean back in the chair, keeping my eyes on him. “You’re not so scary now, you know that? You’re really not. You’re just rotting away in here. Hardly recognise you.” I look around the room for some sign of his belongings, for a fleeting second thinking that maybe I’ll find a framed picture of him when he was younger, of him and a little boy. But it isn’t there. Of course not. People like him don’t change just because they’re dying. “I’m on a world tour. Wasn’t stupid after all, was it, my music obsession? I’ve seen so much more than you ever did. You’re not even fifty-five and you’re dying. How’s that? Huh? How’s that for you? What did you _ever_ do?” I stop as if to wait for an answer that I’ll never get. I laugh. “Fuck... What am I doing? You can’t even hear me. This was Spencer’s idea. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. I’m too busy for you, I don’t –”

“Excuse me?” a curious female voice asks from behind me.

I twist my head around to see a young nurse by the door. “Yeah?”

She smiles nervously with a frown on her face. “Are you in the right room, sir?”

I blink. “Yes.”

She’s surprised, just like the woman downstairs was. “Oh. Right. He just – He just doesn’t get many visitors. Or... any visitors.” She looks at me with interest, and then her eyes widen slightly. I’ve been recognised. Great. Suppose she’ll want me to sign something for her. “Are you his son?” she asks disbelievingly. Oh. Am I? My confusion seems to show because she says, “You’ve got the same eyes.”

Oh.

“Yeah.”

“He’s never mentioned a son,” she says and then looks embarrassed. Yeah, that’s not something you should say to the only living relative, is it? That you’ve never even been mentioned. Doesn’t matter how often my name spills from other people’s lips, he’ll be damned to utter my name. “I, uh. I’ll let you be, then –”

“Hang on. Why does he...” I motion at Dad vaguely. “That tube down his mouth. What’s that for? And can he hear me? I mean, is he aware at all?”

“I can ask the doctor to –”

“You tell me. I’m on a tight schedule here, I don’t have time to wait for doctors.”

She hesitates but then steps inside further. “He had another heart attack last week. He’s been on life support ever since. The chemotherapy had left him weak so the heart attack had severe effects. He comes around sometimes. He can’t communicate, but we try to make him as comfortable as we can.” She has a sympathetic tone that seeks to comfort me.

“How long?”

Her brows knit together. “I’m sorry?”

“How long until he finally dies?” I clarify impatiently.

She pales slightly. “I really shouldn’t –”

“In your professional opinion, how long until he’s singing to the angels?” I then chuckle. “Although he’d be lucky to get there. I’d say he’s going the other way.”

She blinks. “Erm. I think... he might have two more weeks.”

Two weeks. I’ll be in England by then. I’ll be on tour when he dies. Don’t expect me to take time off, old man, or to come to your funeral. I have people who can arrange all of that.

It’s a shame. I can admit that. It’s a shame he and I never saw eye to eye on anything, that we couldn’t be friends or even family. But then it’s not. He’s a cunt. He always was and always will be, and I will not turn him into some kind of misunderstood antihero in my head just because he’s about to go. As far as I’m concerned, he’s been dead for years. He left a bruise on my jaw. I left a bruise on his cheek.

What a wasted life it has been.

“Let me get the doctor for you,” the nurse says.

I stand up and shake my head. “No. That’s alright. I have somewhere to be. I –”

Dad opens his eyes. His gaze is out of focus at first, brown eyes – apparently the same colour as mine – staring at the wall, then the window, blinking. Confused. Beep – two – three – four. He looks at me. He stops.

Beep – two – three – four.

I expect something to happen, for that machine showing his heart rate to suddenly beepbeepbeep, for him to reach out a shaking hand. But nothing happens.

I don’t even know if he recognises me, but his gaze focuses on me.

“I have to go,” I tell him, the nurse, both of them. I tell him just in case he didn’t know that already, but I think he has known it. When I left nearly a decade ago, we both knew it was inevitable, that it was something that the both of us needed. The only thing we ever agreed on was to keep away from each other. He blinks slowly. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at me. And I swear that even with that tube down his throat, even when he’s stuck in that bed, when he’s been broken and humiliated, he looks disappointed. He manages to look at _me_ with disappointment.

“I have to go,” I repeat, and the nurse asks me to wait but I hurry out of the room, down the corridor, hurried steps to get away from his death.

Spencer’s in the waiting room, and he stands up when he sees me coming.

“What a fucking brilliant idea this was,” I tell him, heading for the elevator and pressing and pressing and pressing the down button until the elevator arrives.

“Was he awake?” he asks, sounding concerned.

“I don’t even know, man. I don’t fucking care.” The two of us get in. I press the ground floor button fervently. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I slump against the wall, my eyes closed, fuck fuck fuck – “Fuck!” I yell and slam the wall. My palm stings like a bitch and my eyes water – from the pain, that’s it, and I wipe the corners of my eyes and feel stupid and like I’m twelve and what if he didn’t even recognise me? What if he did, and I let him win by showing up? Was that his final disappointment, that I wasn’t man enough to let him die without seeing him one more time?

I could never win with him.

I could fucking never.

“He couldn’t speak. He had one of those tubes down his mouth.” I laugh. “That’s funny, right? The last chance for us to – to ever speak, and he’s fucked himself up so bad that he can’t even manage that. What a fuck up he is. What a mess.” I hang my head. “He looked so old, Spence, he looked so fucking... human.” I wipe my eyes quickly and pull in a rattled breath. “My album’s number one. I get recognised in the streets all the time. I matter, you know? And he – That fucking...” I swallow hard. “No wonder I’ve been such a mess, you know? You get an upbringing like he offered, you end up kind of fucked up. Look at your mom, managing to raise you and the twins on her own even though she worked two jobs, and she loved you, she hates me because she loves you, and it shows. It shows.´”

He’s remained quiet and has kept staring at the floor. Something’s off.

“Spence?”

“Does it show? I mean... Yeah, your dad was an asshole, but you’ve turned out alright. You’ve got your band and your fame and your health and, hell, you’ve got a boyfriend or whatever he is. You’re all settled. Whereas me? I’m still living off of Followers royalties. I’m not visiting my Mom, I’m fucking living with her, have been for the past month since my wife kicked me out of our damn house, and I wasn’t even there for my girl’s third birthday.” He shakes his head. “How does my decent life show there?”

I stare at him in utter confusion as his slice of domestic Cincinnati heaven, the one he’s been living in my head, crumbles. “What?”

He looks up with sad blue eyes. “Haley’s filing for a divorce.”

Oh.

“Oh.” I try to calm down from my sudden breakdown. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he says quietly, and I feel oddly numb. They’re divorcing. I knew it’d never last, so why am I so surprised? “Christ,” he swears. “I’m not a drummer, soon I won’t be a husband, and truth be told I’m not that great of a father. I’m almost twenty-five, but feel like I’m forty, and I feel like a fuck up, regardless of my childhood. You’ve got it figured out, man. I haven’t even started.”

“Well,” I say at length, trying to process all of this. “I got addicted to painkillers.”

“Yeah?” he asks, tone almost hopeful.

“Yeah. And my band’s great, but they don’t – It’s a job. You know? Whereas the four of us, even if it got shot to shit, we _lived_ it. And Brendon, well – We had an affair, and technically he’s still dating this guy who’s doing a documentary on the band, so that’s another mess in itself, and when he left me for a while, I instantly resorted to booze and drugs and not giving a crap about myself, just like my old man did back in the day. Blood. You can’t fight blood. And I just saw my dad for the first time in seven years, and I hate him. I fucking despise the living shit out of him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “So I don’t think I’ve got it figured out either, man. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. If you and I had life figured out at this point in life, what would the next thirty, forty or even fifty years be for?”

He chuckles sadly just as the doors open to the ground floor. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” I say with as much cockiness as I can muster, to try and heal up our bruised dreams. “I’m a prophet, or have you not been reading my reviews?”

We chuckle together, and we almost manage to hide the pain for a while. It’s a talent, certainly, being on the top of the world and still feeling like a reject and a failure.

We were always made of the same spirit, Spence and me.

“So you want me to take you to a strip club or something?” I offer. He looks at me disbelievingly.

* * *

We’re kind of drunk by the time we get to the venue, and we’re also out of small bills. But those girls earned it – come on, they definitely earned it. And like I said, there’s no harm in looking. Spencer’s going to be a free man, and I never thought that Haley was _that_ pretty, anyway, so he needs to know what kind of fish swim in the metaphorical sea.

He just needs to forget for one night. Have a good time. Marriages fail all the time. Especially if you only marry her because you knocked her up.

I just need to forget for one night. Have a good time. Families fail all the time. Especially if you only have a weak link of an ejaculation connecting you.

And so I put one family to die and make plans to create a whole new one. Spencer can be in it. We’re cackling over stupid shit when we get to the convention centre, ten minutes before I’m due to go on. I did call from the club to let Vicky know that I was alive. I’m a good boy, aware of the leash on me.

Spencer smoothes the backstage sticker that’s now stuck to his t-shirt. Someone’s bringing me my stage jacket, someone’s shoving the set list at me, and someone else is leading us to the stage. Spencer keeps saying how it feels like the old days – well, the venue is bigger than what he’s used to, but – and he looks at all the people running around us and shakes his head.

“Was it always this crazy?” he asks.

“Probably,” I snicker, pleasantly stoned. “It’s hard to judge when I’m a part of the circus.”

The guys already are at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the stage. The crowd is chanting and cheering and whooing and stomping. I don’t need to make any introductions because the second the guys see Spencer, they all stand a bit straighter. Patrick calls him ‘Mister Smith’.

“So you’re my replacement, huh?” Spencer asks Patrick, who blushes and stutters and takes the hand Spencer offers.

“He is,” I cut in.

He really actually is.

Spencer glances at me like I’m being mean. I grin back.

“Hope you enjoy the show, man,” I tell him, looking around impatiently to spot my manager, who I soon see talking into one of those modern walkie-talkies – only the size of a bulky book. Crazy shit. I excuse myself and head over quickly before we go on stage. I already told Vicky on the phone that Spencer was with me, and that it was her job to make sure Spencer gets anything and everything he wants: girls, drugs, girls. I never underestimate the therapeutic power of a rebound fuck.

Vicky sees me coming, and she tries to smile kindly but I can tell that she’s furious that I disappeared for hours without telling her where I even went. “Nice of you to show up,” she hisses.

“I’m on time,” I say in my defence. It’s been a rough day, an exhausting day – she would know, actually, the hospital bills go through her, but I don’t want to talk about it with her. It’s been a rough day but we’re going to turn it around, so she could stop with the bitch act and smile already. “So what happened to Brendon?” I ask. “He never showed up at the café. I don’t see him anywhere.”

I miss him. It’s stupid because I saw him this morning, and I briefly talked to him yesterday, and I’ve kept seeing him, but it’s – God, it’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough. I come up with all kinds of little things to miss all the time, like that small mole on his lower back or the way he moves his fingers or his even breaths when he sleeps, it’s stupid, so stupid and so consuming, and I love every second of it.

I’ve never felt this way about him before.

Well, I have. I probably have. But it was always confused and muddled, and people were in the way.

Not anymore.

Vicky clears her throat slightly. “Well. I called here earlier to pass on the message, but. There was some drama, so.” She shrugs.

“Drama?”

She looks like she doesn’t want to say but then concedes. “Brendon and Shane fighting. Apparently in front of everyone, I don’t know, maybe they broke up or something. I guess that’s your doing, huh?” I don’t know if she tries to sound pissed off or supportive, but I hear ‘they broke up’, and I string those three words together, and my chest expands and light fills up the universe. I open my mouth, but she says, “I really don’t know. Don’t ask me, I wasn’t here. Someone said that Shane went back to the hotel, and the film crew guys have gone out gambling until bus call. I don’t know where Brendon is, and it doesn’t _matter_ right now because you need to get on stage.”

“Sure thing,” I say, winking at her. Sure, sure thing. Fuck.

Finally.

Shane, of course, objected to being dumped, and Brendon said quite firmly that no, no, it’s over now, it’s all over, in front of everyone, and they all know now.

Today’s the day to make him mine.

Vicky has to push me to the stairs that lead up to the stage, and Spencer’s behind me. It’s weird that he doesn’t follow me on stage, confusing and unsettling, but he just smiles as he stays by the side, perhaps slightly subdued, and the lights are in my face and it’s hard to see and the crowd screams and it’s hard to hear.

I punch the air as a sign of my victory – and I’m pleasantly drunk, so – grab the microphone and say, “Hey Vegas, I used to live here.” They cheer louder. The guitar tech hands me a guitar and rushes off stage. I look to the floor to the taped setlist, find out what we’re doing, and the thousands cheer, and I laugh, feeling miles away from the boy at the hospital today.

That’s not who I am anymore.

Behold, behold.

I press the right pedal on the floor, and all bets are off.

The ninety-minute set flies by, and I steadily drink beer. The alcohol hits me harder than it usually would, and maybe that’s due to my body being tired from the codeine and the lack thereof. I keep looking to the side of the stage to Spencer for validation, which he gives me, smiling, nodding to the beat; looking for Brendon, who isn’t here so where is he? At the hotel, gathering his stuff from his and Shane’s former hotel room? That. I like that. I’ve got a big bed, we can share it.

He must be fucking happy to be free of that old ball and chain.

God, I’ll cover him in a thousand kisses when I see him.

When we leave the stage after the encore, Spencer says, “You guys do a tight live set.”

“Thanks, man, thanks. We try.”

I’m surprised to realise that my left arm doesn’t feel too sore. A bit tingly, but there is no actual pain like I thought there would be. Like maybe I made that bit up to justify the pills.

Well.

Well, well, well. Aren’t we just learning so much about ourselves today?

“You enjoyed yourself out there,” Spencer adds in an oddly hollow voice. I did. Hell. I suppose I did. But it’s a special night tonight.

“Come on, we’ll drop by the hotel and grab Brendon, and we’ll go out. Take Vegas by storm.”

“I don’t know if –”

“Spence, come on. I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

The second I say it, I realise it’s true. I’m just passing through. But I don’t mean this to be a one-night-stand, if he and I could have one platonically speaking. I’ll give him my phone number. Fate didn’t bring us together – we did. Yeah, I’ll give him my number. Or have Vicky give it to him. He can come to New York and stay with Brendon and me while this divorce business of his is taking place.

Spencer stays in the hotel reception to call his mother that he won’t be coming home anytime soon while I quickly go up to my room. It’s close to midnight, and I’m drenched from the show but have no time to shower. I change shirts in my hotel room, and then call reception to ask if any messages have been left for me. None have been. I ask for Brendon and Shane’s room number, and they put me through but no one picks up, and I spray some cologne on, buzzed, and head out to their room in slight annoyance because Brendon and I should be celebrating by now.

A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hangs on the doorknob of their room, but I will disturb, thank you very much. And when I do, the door inches forwards, not even locked. Thanks for the invitation there, door.

“Hello?” I ask, walking in. The room is smaller and plainer than mine, so it’s easy to spot Brendon sitting on the edge of the double bed. A fluttery sensation buzzes in my guts. Funny that the light isn’t on, so I switch it on for him. “Hey. Hi.” Hey, gorgeous. Hey, hey, hey. “I’ve been looking for you.” The sudden overflow of love and affection and want would be sickening if I weren’t the one feeling it. “Vicky gave me the news,” I tell him with a big grin, slightly confused by him not moving or even acknowledging me, but sitting still like a statue. “We should go out to celebrate. You seen Spencer yet? Spencer’s here, my Spencer. We’ve been hanging out the entire day.”

I sound happy but then it hasn’t been that happy, and I’ve wanted to talk to him ever since the hospital. He understands these things, he is bound to have good advice. He’ll understand what it felt like.

“God, it’s been a fucked up day,” I sigh. “So much I need to tell you. Spencer’s wife’s left him for starters. We went to this strip club, I thought it’d cheer him up.”

He finally looks up at me, and I laugh. “Don’t you worry, hey, I’ve only got eyes for you.” I sit down next to him on the bed. “There was this one girl with these _hips_ like yours, though. God, it made me hard watching her. Just wanted to find you and fuck you,” I purr, leaning in to bite his earlobe, nuzzle him, ravish him, laugh into his hair. But he pulls back in what is clearly rejection.

I frown, trying to comprehend this unexpected move. “Hey.” I look at him – properly, at last.

The dozens of butterflies fluttering about get massacred in one short second.

He’s been crying. His eyes are red and puffy, and his cheeks still look wet. He doesn’t cry. I’ve never seen him cry _fully_ , anyway, but he clearly has, big, fat, breath-rattling tears. He’s been here, crying.

A sharp pain twists my insides. “Hey, hey, hey,” I rush out soothingly, moving closer, a hand instantly moving to his hair as I feel too worried to breathe. He flinches at my touch, tensing up instead of relaxing into it. “Talk to me.”

He takes in a sharp, uneven breath. He wipes his cheeks and blinks hard like he might start crying again. He’s staring at his knees, apathetic. When he speaks, he becomes misery: “I think he’s going to leave me.”

I stare. “Shane?” I clarify, and he gives me the smallest of nods. Okay. Sure. “Well... yeah,” I say, trying not to add ‘are you stupid?’ He’s not stupid, of course not. “How did you think he’d react when you told him about us?”

“I didn’t,” he corrects, and suddenly I’m the one who’s stupid. But Vicky said... I mean. “I told him about- about my childhood. I told him about my dad. I told him that nothing I ever told him was true,” he says, letting out an anguished laugh. “He’d find that out, were I to get famous, and I wanted him to hear it from me, you know? I wanted to – be honest with him. But he got so mad, Ry. He got so mad.” He shakes his head and looks around the room. “I didn’t realise...”

I follow his gaze, and all of these obvious things are now coming into focus, things I somehow missed when I sauntered in. Like the fact that the room is a mess and that their shit is everywhere – not in that absent kind of careless way, but in a shit-has-been-thrown-around way. Like maybe Shane... I can’t imagine him throwing shit around, let alone showing balls of any kind.

Maybe that’s why Brendon’s upset. He wasn’t expecting Shane to blow up at him.

“So he left you,” I say, trying to figure it out. Brendon told him about his lies, and Shane left him. “Well... that’s good. You didn’t even have to be the bad guy.” It’s actually kind of genius, but Brendon pulls in a rattled breath like he’s about to burst into tears. My baby doesn’t cry. “We can – We can lay low for a while and then, say, a month from now we can tell a select few that we’re together,” I say in confusion, trying to get him to cheer up already. “We don’t have to tell him about us or our past. If you don’t want to hurt him or something.”

“But I have,” he says instantly. “I already have.” And he begins pulling in air sharply, almost hyperventilating.

“Hey, calm down.” I try to hug him, but he doesn’t want to be hugged, pulling away from me instead with a shake of the head. “Baby, what’s the matter? This is what we wanted.”

“No,” he says sternly. “It’s what you wanted. Not me. I didn’t want this.”

“I know it feels bad right now, but we can be together now, we can –”

“Stop,” he says, shaking his head more vigorously.

“But –”

“Stop it!” He seems angry, dangerous flashes of hurt in his brown eyes. “You think I can just do this to Shane and not look back? Vicky and Gabe were right, I’ve made such a fool out of him. I’ve humiliated him. And now it’s all a mess, and you didn’t see how hurt he got, how upset he was.” He sounds angry at himself more than me. “God, everything’s so wrong. I have to talk to him. I have to set things right.” His tone sounds desperate and urgent.

“But they _are_ right,” I argue in utter confusion.

“They’re not. They’re really not.” He stands up, wiping his cheeks once more, trying to pull himself together. His hands drop to his sides, and he breathes in deep, and he doesn’t look at me but beyond me somehow, like he’s seeing me in a different place than where I am. “I can’t handle this. Every time you- you kiss me or touch me, or even look at me, I can’t deal with it. I just can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

It’s funny, what happens right then. Like the world just ceases to exist for a few seconds. Like there’s nothing. Nothing but soaring black.

“...What?”

“And I’m sorry if I’ve led you on,” he then adds, like he’s listing things, things that have been on his mind while he was sitting here in the dark. He won’t look at me. “But I can’t.” He looks pained.

“But why?” I ask, my voice trembling. His words make no sense to me.

“Because we’d…” He pauses. Yeah. Yeah, there is no adequate explanation. “We’d crash and burn, you know that we would. It’s like a drug, what you and I are feeling. And yeah, it’s powerful and all-consuming, and it’s addictive. But it wears off. It’ll stop getting us high, and it will tear us apart instead because that’s what drugs do. It’s not real.”

That’s not what he’s supposed to say. That’s not what he’s supposed to even think. “We’re not a... temporary high,” I say in utter confusion. “ _We’re_ real. We’re –”

“There is no we!” he then barks, sounding frustrated, transforming from something to protect into something to protect myself from. “You keep doing these crazy things like sweet-talking to me in a cab or kissing me in front of your friends, and you just – don’t get that people like us can’t do those things! No matter how famous you are! And what do you think is going to happen next? I leave Shane, and we live happily ever after? Like it’s that easy? You said it yourself, Shane will probably quit, so I break his heart and ruin his career, and just walk away?! This is killing me! I can’t just not care for Shane anymore! You keep expecting things, you keep saying these things, but your idea of real is nobody else’s idea of real, and you’ve never understood that!”

“I keep expecting things because you give me reason to,” I say quietly, anger suddenly emerging at the pit of my stomach. Maybe I have gotten carried away with my feelings for him. Maybe. But I can’t help it, god, when I see him, I just can’t help touching him. And he thinks that’s a bad thing.

“I know I’ve led you on,” he says again, looking guilty. “But I make mistakes, Ryan. That’s what I do. I make one mistake after another, and I didn’t – I didn’t mean to make you think that we... I just wasn’t sure.” He’s trying so fucking hard not to look at me right now. “You were like my codeine, I just had to get more.”

“You’re comparing me to something that could’ve killed me. How is that fair?”

“Because everything I feel is amplified with you,” he says, sounding like he’s speaking from experience. He is. We both know that he is. The good is so fucking good, and the bad is... destructive. He whispers, “Shane’s been the only good thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“That’s not true,” I say, standing up. “That’s not how you feel,” I insist stubbornly, desperately, trying to believe I’m even hearing this. And I can’t. We’ve been through this already, we’ve walked away because it was wrong or something else as ridiculous, and where did we end up? Back in each other’s arms, that’s where. So we know now. We _know_ that this is where we’re meant to be, that it’s not something we can fight. “You think you should feel like Shane’s it because of what William said, but you _know_ that’s not true. Don’t let other people make you feel guilty about us. About what you feel. I _know_ how you feel. And the other day, in my hotel room in LA, when we – I could feel you shaking after we were done,” I say quietly, the memory of it too intimate to even repeat to him, but I will if I have to. The sex was intense. God, it’s never been that intense. He looks lost and embarrassed, but he doesn’t have to be with me. If what we feel gets to him that hard, that it leaves him shaking, that it makes him cry, then that’s fine, and I’ll never tell anyone. If it cuts in too deep, then I’ll be there to tell him how much it scares me, like it scares him. We’re in it together.

“That –” he begins and stops, voice shaking. He doesn’t have the words. I was there, he can’t fool me. He wipes his cheeks quickly, still looking guilty, so damn guilty.

“You tell me that wasn’t real, that what we felt is something that can just wear off.” The thought is ridiculous and insulting. How dare he?

“Sex isn’t love.”

“Making love is love.”

“Don’t –”

“Don’t what?! What?!” I interrupt him, staring him down. “How can you say we’re a mistake? God, when I look at you, I can barely breathe!” I exclaim in desperation. “It’s you. Brendon, it’s you.” It always has been, and I’m slowly realising that. “And now you’re backing out? And for what? Because it got too real for you, because you feel bad? Sometimes you have to trample on others to get what you want! Shane’s fucking insignificant, he’s –”

His expression changes from intimidated and confused to being very clearly defensive and foreboding. I’m not winning. I’m not –

I take a deep breath and try to keep myself together, trying not to panic and drown and burn and crash and bang and smoke. “You’re scared. That’s what it is, you’re scared,” I rush out, nodding too much. That has to be it. “Shane’s left you, and so you feel guilty. You’ve been with him for so long, so I get that that change is scary for you, but you gotta trust me on this one. You have to.” It sounds like a plea from a desperate man being dragged towards the guillotine.

“But you didn’t see how hurt Shane was, you didn’t –”

“I don’t _care_ how hurt he was!” I spit as the sickening truth slowly dawns on me, that he is not going to change his mind. That he wants to fix things with Shane. All of this, all this time, everything he and I have ever done, and when he’s finally supposed to be mine, he pulls back from the ledge. And I just don’t know why. “I’ve waited, so I get to be selfish now! Fuck Shane! Fuck him, and fuck you two, and fuck it all!”

“You have to understand –”

“You don’t get to break my heart and expect me to take it fucking gracefully!” I yell, feeling the bloody pieces exploding inside my chest until nothing remains except a painful emptiness where something used to be.

My boy’s so beautiful when he’s drawn in on himself, his sorry, reddened eyes staring at me soulfully. He’s so beautiful that it kills me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then, “I’m so sorry.” His eyes are full of remorse and pity, like that’s supposed to make it better, like that fixes it somehow. “I wish things hadn’t gone this far, I –”

“No, that’s not good enough. You can’t do this to me!”

I feel everything fall apart. He takes cautious steps back – I’m not the first man today to start having a go at him in this hotel room, but I just and just manage not to start throwing shit around in primitive rage. I pull on my hair and I swear and I clench my fists, but I don’t do it out of hate. “Why are you doing this to us?!” I ask desperately. Every word and action seems to have the opposite effect of pushing him away from me rather than pulling him in. That’s not what I –

I could never win with him either.

I could fucking never.

My hands are shaking, an adrenalin rush coursing through my veins. He looks alarmed. Scared. Reserved. Distant. Having made up his mind.

 _Now_ he’s made it up.

“Things are never easy with us,” he says slowly. “It’d blow up in our faces so quickly, Ry. And after the number I’ve pulled on Shane, I have to make that better. I’m too much of a mess to just jump from one bed to another, and –”

“Funny how being a slut has never stopped you before,” I growl, thinking of the numerous times he’s writhed beneath me, boyfriend or no boyfriend waiting. Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

He stares at me for a second, and then laughs disbelievingly, but mostly he looks like I’ve just slapped him and the laugh is a poor attempt to hide the pain. “And yeah. Then we’d hurt each other because that’s what we do best.”

I bite on my tongue. God, I’m an idiot, and god no, baby, I would never hurt you, I wouldn’t, I swear, I just fuck things up because I’m the product of fucked up people. You should’ve seen him today. This isn’t my fault.

He and I could make each other better. I’m a better person with him around, can’t he see that?

I say, “Hey, come on, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry, I –”

“No, you meant it.” He wipes his cheeks again – and were those tears caused by me? Not Shane, but me? I don’t want to – I just. It’s not coming out right. “So maybe you can’t... see it now,” he says at length. He nods as if to convince us both. “But one day you’ll be see that I was right.”

But there never will be such a day.

Because he walks out of the room, to find Shane, to break someone else’s heart, to busy himself not choosing me, and he leaves me.

He leaves me.

And not like he did back in the day when he told me that I was vile and cruel, and not like he did when we told each other it was over earlier this year, making out in a hotel corridor, clutching onto each other too hard, trying to convince each other that we didn’t feel what we obviously felt.

He just doesn’t choose me. It’s that simple.

He is just too good a person to love me.


	7. Love, Imagined

This is not me sitting at the bar, knocking back shots. This is some other person.

And me, I’m in my hotel room, making love to the one person who has ever mattered.

This is a caricature of me, crude and wrong.

This is what dying feels like. Right this.

And my caricature finds out that not everything is free.

* * *

The game is called ‘How Many Free Drinks Can We Get in Vegas Bars?’, and it’s plenty, as it turns out. A lot of, “Mr. Ross, that’s on the house,” and I say thanks, that’s very kind, or merci, should I say, or danke or arigato or kiitos, and they say that it’s no problem at all. The kinder they are to me, showing that artificial celebrity adoration, the worse it feels. After one round of free drinks, we move onto the next bar. We get free cigarettes and cocktails and whisky and wine, and Gabe’s off his face quickly.

We stop to do business with a guy who’s standing idly in a street corner, trying to look non-conspicuous.

That does cost us something.

Gabe thinks it’s hilarious, all of it, and the harder he laughs, the harder it is for it to sink in. That lump in my throat, that sharp pain in my chest isn’t real. I’m on top of the world, so no, it can’t be real, it didn’t happen. It was imagined.

I refuse it to be real.

Eventually we settle in a deserted and godforsaken bar near closing time. Gabe goes into the bathroom and comes back out looking as high as a kite. He spots a pretty brunette at the bar and heads over to her instead of coming back to our table. I can’t look at that initial contact, its warmth.

It’s realer than it should be.

Spencer sits across from me, and I feel like I’m being scrutinised and pitied. This is the first bar where we’ve managed to not attract too much attention. Spencer hasn’t been drinking since the show a lifetime ago, last night, hell, fucking six hours. But I’ve been drinking, I’ve been having fun, so much fun. Not anything weighing me down.

“You always take things too hard,” Spencer now says quietly, watching me take another shot. “The rare times you’re happy, you’re _happy_ , and when you’re sad, you’re really fucking sad.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice has an alcohol burn to it. I can’t. I won’t. Although he knows. He saw me in that first stage of shock at the hotel, so he knows, but that didn’t actually happen.

Because if it did, there’s nothing. There’s just – nothing.

“Look,” he sighs, “Brendon –”

I flinch at his name, and the wave of heat flashing inside is immediate. It burns to kill.

“Don’t,” I stop him, holding the shot glass in my fingers, dangling it. “I can’t.”

I close my eyes and see him, and I hear his voice and his laughter and the way he says my name when he smiles, and the way he says my name when he comes, and the way he says my name when he refuses me. And there’s so much joy there and so much love, and then there’s just –

Nothing.

And the horror of that realisation is trying to catch up with me, but I’m trying to outrun it.

But the water is retreating from the beach, is getting sucked back into the ocean, and that’s a sign of a tidal wave, and when the wave comes, it will take the memory of him and me and Florida and the stars with it. But as I wait for that, I can still feel like I’m on top of the world. Nothing can touch me, I’m Ryan Ross, so nothing and no one, certainly not –

Can’t even think his name.

I stare into space, my chest feeling constricted. It’ll hit me and tear me to pieces.

And because I know it’s coming, we bought two bags off that guy standing idly in a street corner. Gabe’s used his, and mine is in my back pocket. Spencer knows this. I know it.

Codeine kept the pain away, kept me numb, helped me balance the line between escapism and reality, but now that line will be white, white, white if I want it to be. I try to keep away from the hard shit. I’ve seen it turn people’s brains into jelly after years of use. But I also know that unlike codeine, which still kept me intact and which wouldn’t let me forget, something illegal will blur reality for me, will bend it to my will.

Will transform me into someone else.

“I know that it hurts right now,” Spencer says, like now we’re talking about this, whether I like it or not. “When Haley dropped the news, I spent two days drinking, so I get what you’re trying to do.” Like their relationship can be compared to mine somehow. Like his youthful infatuation can be compared to Brendon and me in any way or form. This isn’t something to just get over or accept or say, ‘Guess we grew apart’. “You have to think of the future, man. I do it for Suzie, you know?”

“And who do I do it for?” I ask. Why would I try?

“For yourself.” He leans over the table, looking stern. “You saw your old man yesterday, you saw what he did to himself. You don’t want to go down that same road, Ryan.”

But maybe I do.

Maybe my old man had it figured out, and I hated him all this time for being smarter than me.

“Love is a tricky thing,” he says, and I can tell that he’s launching into a speech. But really? It’s ‘tricky’? That’s all he’s fucking got?

He’s never loved.

His story is four in the morning and sobering up and tired. He talks, trying to give me some insight, and I try so hard to focus on his words. He says he doesn’t know at what point she stopped being happy. Things weren’t perfect, he knew that, and maybe it stopped working because he wasn’t happy. Nothing to do with her or their little girl – it was him. He just wasn’t a suburban husband, and eventually she began to hate him for it.

His sentences are full of sighs and pauses and, “I never cheated on her, man, I never,” and “Well, except that one time but –”

Forbidden kisses.

Suddenly, our life flashes before my eyes, the one I made up for us: our love, imagined. Full of tours and best kept secrets and music business bullshit and staying in different addresses but always sleeping in the same bed by the end of it.

And now it’s gone. It never even was.

Nothing Spencer says relates to me, although he tries with some poor ideas of not all couples being meant to be even if we think so.

“And I love her,” he eventually sighs, staring at the mouth of his beer bottle, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore. You know? And it took me a while to realise that. Maybe with time you’ll realise that about Brendon. You don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t return your feelings. Trust me, I know.”

“But he has to feel this,” I say silently, staring at the table, eyes fixed to one spot. He has to. I know he’s never said it, but we don’t need to say it like normal human beings do. He doesn’t need to say it because I know. I thought I knew. But if he felt this, there would be no competition. If he felt _this_ , he would not have been able to walk away.

So he never felt it.

And that’s when the inexplicable pain rips my insides apart, that’s when the tidal wave comes in. But where’s the knife? Where’s the wound? I look fine on the outside, can walk down the street like I’m just one of them, but I’m screaming, still screaming, they just can’t hear it, and he...

“Why didn’t he choose me?” I ask quietly, my voice breaking. In my head, I’ve yelled it and I’ve cursed it and I’ve seethed it and I’ve screamed it, but now all that’s left is a soft fucking question. “I know I’m not perfect, I know that I’ve... I’ve done a lot of wrong.” I glance at Spencer because he’s had a front row seat to so many of the shitty things I’ve done. “But I _don’t_ understand why. I thought we wanted this. I thought we...” And then I stop, wiping my cheeks with shaking hands. Not in public, some part of my brain tells me, the one clinging to dignity, but such luxuries have long been lost.

I take in a rattling breath, and my eyes feel wet even as I try to dry them. Spencer looks like he doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I.

How could he let me in like that and then just push me back out?

“You’re better off without him, man.”

“But I’m not.”

And this is not like those other times when I knew that he’d come back to me. Something about this one feels more final. Feels like it’s over. And I can drink myself to a stupor, but then tomorrow it won’t be any different, and not the day after that, and he won’t be there anymore, and I miss him, I can’t not be with him, and I want him to go to hell. And Shane, that fucking Shane, I can’t –

“I’m gonna beat up that fucking Shane Valdes. I’m gonna motherfucking beat him to a pulp, and then we’ll see who’s laughing.” And then I laugh, my knuckles dripping blood, I see it happening, blood, blood, blood, and no. No.

Brendon would rush to his aid, pushing me aside.

I’ve lost.

But I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

“I feel like I’m falling apart,” I manage. “I keep- keep thinking it didn’t happen. That I made it up. Because I can’t be without him, Spencer, I don’t know how to be without him. I don’t know how, I don’t –” I cover my mouth, shaking, trying to breathe, my vision blurred.

“Ryan?” he asks, tone alarmed, and then he speaks but I can’t make it out.

I’m dying.

I swear that I’m dying.

I wipe my cheeks again, but it’s useless, and I stand up and dig into my back pocket with trembling fingers.

He doesn’t try to stop me as I head to the bathroom to take a trip to a place where I don’t love Brendon anymore, where all of this ceases to exist.

Where I cease to exist.

* * *

I vomit by the side of the highway, trying to make it all stop, trying to get it all out. I claw at my skin and breathe in the morning air. It won’t go. My limbs feel heavy, and my insides are tiny insects crawling all over.

“You okay, man?” Gabe asks, the car door open. He’s leaning into the backseat drunkenly. I close my eyes and sway slightly. Too much of everything. Not enough.

A single Joshua tree breaks the horizon of the desert. Morning, Arizona.

“’m fine.”

I head back over to the car, crawling over him and crashing onto the backseat. I keep my feet in his lap. He chuckles at nothing, head lolled to one side. I wash my mouth with beer. God, this is all one big joke.

We ran out of gas before Phoenix, but we’ll fix that when the drugs wear off. If they do. If we live. For now, passing out in the backseat of Spencer’s mom’s car seems like a good idea, like I’m back in 1968 and none of us have ever gotten our hearts broken. We have never loved.

The spinning won’t stop.

Sleep and alcohol and the waning effects of cocaine weigh down on me, but my senses are on full alert, tingling, thoughts and colours and heat flashes, and my mind is reeling. I can’t stop my thoughts. I can’t stop myself.

Spencer’s sleeping at the front. Someone sober had to drive. We were... heading to Phoenix. Yeah. That plane, man, I don’t wanna be on that plane, the fucking forty minutes that the flight would take. Brendon. God, his name, and his touch, I can’t get it out of my system, I can’t seem to be able to sweat him out.

“Bren,” I say, repeating the name floating in the air. And then, “Bren.” And his fucking lies and games and treacherous kisses.

“Yeah, man. Exactly,” Gabe agrees.

Bren, Bren, Bren.

“What if,” I laugh desperately, “what if he is making up with Shane right now? What if they’re fucking fucking? I can’t, I can’t.” I rub my face, visions flashing in front of my eyes, and I hear his voice and I hear his groans, but not real, not real, that’s just what I took, what we took again in the gas station at the state line. Seemed like such a good idea.

“Don’t think of that, man.”

But Gabe doesn’t understand. I don’t have the words to describe the way I feel, how it’s thick, black liquid dripping inside me. How I want to scream until my voice is gone, how I want to trash the car, how dark it is, how angry I am, and Bren, Bren, Bren, my Bren, why would you do this to me, baby?

Spencer was right. I take things too hard. I take things too close to the heart.

But I’ll push Brendon out like he did with me. If it’s that easy, which he’s shown it to be. So fucking easy.

I’ll show him.

“And even if he were fucking Shane,” Gabe then amends, “what do you care, hermano? You could have anyone in the woooorld.” He makes a broad arch with his hand and then chuckles. Yeah. I like that. Maybe I can just say that I didn’t want Brendon anymore. Shane can have my leftovers. What the fuck do I care?

Gabe squeezes my ankle fraternally, smiling down at me. “I’m glad to have you back, man. He always messed you up. You’re better off like this.”

“But it was such a wonderful mess,” I sigh, and it was. It was the most perfect mess. “Maybe I’ll get myself a boyfriend. Piss him off. I’ll start dating Bowie.”

Gabe snickers, and I laugh out loud, obnoxiously, trying to be, but then it fades into trying to be funny when it’s not, when I want no one except him. No one. Why can’t I feel anything for anyone except him?

I’ll get Audrey to come on tour, I’ll propose to Keltie, I’ll reconnect with Jac, I’ll have a lover for every finger, and they will love me, they will all love me.

And I won’t love him. That manipulative fucker, probably only used me for a record deal, me and my stupid crush, how it must have fucking amused him, and even if – even if that had been the case, then god I don’t care, I just want him back, I just –

“Ry, hey,” Gabe says soothingly, and I realise I’ve started hyperventilating. I wipe my cheeks – no, we’re done with that bit, he’s not worth it, I decided on that, he’s just some stupid boy with a stupid smile. I shake my head and pull myself to sit up. Sunshine is coming in through the slightly dirty windshield, and the highway is getting busier now that morning’s here.

“I can have anyone, right?” I ask him.

“Of course you can.”

I exhale shakily, wipe my cheeks again. “Okay.”

I scramble over to Gabe, straddling him on the backseat. He looks confused and drunken, and I kiss him. He stills, and my cheeks feel wet and my heart feels heavy. It’s brief but forceful, and I pull back with a smack and stare at him. Something. Anything. God, I have to feel something.

“...Okay,” he says, voice breathy. He looks dazed and stares at my lips with dark eyes.

There.

I kiss him again, and he exhales and fists the front of my shirt. We fall into it. Trucks go by, Spencer’s asleep in the front, and we make out in the back, and every kiss feels poisonous but I don’t care. His reaction is immediate and stronger than I thought, and I can work with this, I can slip into this.

I grind against him, and he hisses. “Ryan, fuck.” I suck on his lower lip, bite down, hurt him, and he tastes all wrong. He’s getting hard. That makes one of us.

His mouth moves to my neck when I pull back for air. His hands are on me, so hungry, something that makes me think he’s been patiently waiting for his turn. I close my eyes, focus on the press of lips on my throat, the scrape of teeth and stubble, and then – then I feel something. A spark in my chest. That particular kiss, that particular second, he felt just like –

“Ry, fucking hell, this is so –”

“Could you not speak?” I ask impatiently. That’s not helping. That’s ruining the illusion.

He stops with his groping and grinding and breathes hard against my Adam’s apple. He then pulls back, slumping into the backseat. He gazes at me with blown pupils, not doing anything. He looks lost, frowning.

“What?” I ask, licking my lips, a foreign taste on them.

“This...” he begins and rubs his face. He shakes his head and laughs desperately. “God, this is not how I thought this’d be.”

“Does it matter?”

His hand drops from his face. “Yes. Of course it fucking matters.” He bucks his hips to escape from beneath me, and I let him go as I slide back to my seat. He gets out of the car quickly, hands in his hair, having a crisis or something that looks like a crisis. The alcohol is welling in my stomach, burning, making me feel sick.

I close my eyes, and the memory of him is still there, this random time in our hotel room, and how we had stupid sex – it was just that, _stupid_ , we kept laughing, and he kept squirming, saying he was feeling ticklish, and we almost fell off the bed, and he just – god, he was clutching onto me, laughing against my neck, and that –

It was such a fleeting moment that now feels like a dream.

That moment was everything.

I didn’t imagine it. I could not have.

And that means that he felt it too, but he’s choosing not to acknowledge it. He is choosing not to feel it.

And that’s even worse.

Gabe looks into the backseat and says, “I’m gonna get us gas or something.” He averts his gaze, his lips still reddened, the outline of his cock still visible. He looks like a deer in headlights, unnerved and fidgeting. Should I feel shame? I don’t. I don’t care. I could have him, I could have anyone, and I’d deserve it.

“Sure.”

He’s quick to leave.

* * *

I fall onto the hotel bed like a sack of concrete. Vicky’s heaving, having helped me. There were fans waiting outside. Vicky had to support me. It was funny. I lost my sunglasses in the mess.

“Hey, I’ll play the show,” I tell her before she can even start. I didn’t take off to some random direction, did I? No. Headed to Phoenix for the show. I’m fucking dedicated. I’m a fucking professional. “I fucking will. Don’t you worry. Where’d we park the car? I don’t remember where we parked the car.”

“Fuck you, Ryan Ross,” she snaps.

“Don’t be like that, Vicky,” I say tiredly. I fell asleep in the car for a while, but this reality isn’t any better. “I thought you were on my side.”

“You _never_ disappear on me like that! Is that understood?!” she barks, and all this yelling is giving me a headache.

“Where’s Spencer? Where’s Gabe?”

She sighs exaggeratedly. “Spencer got himself a room to catch sleep before he drives back to Vegas, and Gabe’s passed out in the car. I thought I’d deal with you first.”

“Oh.”

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. It’s been such a blurred few hours. She sits down on the bed, and I feel her eyes on me, taking me in carefully. “Ryan,” she says, but now it’s a soft tone, and it fills me with dread. I preferred the yelling. “When Gabe called me from the gas station, he told me what happened last night.” I don’t want to hear whatever she’s got to say. “Look, I’m sorry. He pulled a number on you, I get that.”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

I don’t want to think about it or feel it or acknowledge it. I’m so fucking sick of it.

“No, listen. You’re on tour, so you gotta keep it together. You can mourn later. There are bigger things at stake here.”

“I’m fine!” I snap, but my voice breaks and it’s her fault for reminding me of it.

“Ryan,” she says again, in this sad pity tone. “We’ll send Brendon and Shane both home, alright? Shane can pull a documentary out of what he’s got. You need the distance, it’s not good for you to be around Brendon right now.”

She’s being practical about this, clinical. Like removing Brendon from close proximity will help, like he’s a tumour that can be cut out and removed and forgotten. But he isn’t.

“But if we send him home, he’s gone.” Irrevocably gone. And maybe that’ll be better, maybe that’ll lessen the pain, but then – How can I just let him go? Will it be better to see him with Shane and slowly go insane than to never see him again? Because there is no world where he doesn’t exist. Where he is a thing of the past.

I built us an entire future in my head.

“Did he and Shane make up last night?” I ask quietly. Did they have a romantic Las Vegas reunion after he walked out on me?

“I don’t know. Everyone panicked when you disappeared, so I really don’t know. I didn’t see either of them last night.” Her voice is softer now, comforting. But their disappearance means that they probably were together, and Brendon seduced Shane, because Brendon’s good at that. Seducing people.

Now there’s a boy who can get what he wants.

And I fell for it.

“You want me to be honest?” she asks, and no, I don’t. “It seems to me that you cared more for him than he did for you. So you think about that.”

She’s lying. That’s not true. She’s just jealous, like she always was.

She smoothes my hair motherly and then stands up. “Get some rest and _don’t_ leave this room. I’ll pick you up before the show.”

She heads for the bedroom door, leaving me to lie on the bed, the ceiling as my friend, coming in and out of view. “I almost slept with Gabe,” I blurt out into the room.

Her footsteps stop. I wait. Smile sadistically.

“How fucking fantastic for you two,” she then says, tone as cold as ice. She slams the door shut after herself, and I chuckle against a pillow when I hear the hotel room door close in the other room. God, all these strings are too easy to pull and jerk. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had.

I kick my shoes off, snuggle into the warmth of the bed, still laughing, finding it so funny, and her words too. That I was running after Brendon, who reluctantly let himself be caught. Is that really how it was?

Is that... really how it was?

As that disgusting thought eats its way inside me, I shiver on the bed, my stomach churning. I can’t sleep, but I’m under house arrest.

I find the minibar in the next room and place all the tiny bottles in a row on the coffee table. So, so pretty, and I put them alphabetically, place them in a pretty order. I’m not stopping yet, this is just the start.

One minute I recall all those small, intimate moments with him, when I was convinced that we loved each other, and the next I recall all those small, intimate moments with him, when he turned away too quickly.

And the more I think about it, the angrier I get.

Maybe Vicky’s right, maybe I gave more, but that’s because I knew it’d take more time for him to come around. I gave more to tell him that it was okay to feel what we felt. He needed time. He was confused. He was scared. So I gave and I gave, and he fell into me more and more, so it only made sense to assume that... he’d fall completely. Like I had.

It was a fair assumption.

And then he takes it all back.

How dare he fucking do that to me?

The minibar collection is pathetic. I pick up the phone and call the reception. “Yeah, it’s room, uh... I don’t. I don’t know what room I’m in. What? It’s – Oh, right, yeah, I see it, okay.” I peer at the three digits that are on the sticker on the phone. “Six... four... seven. And I need more –” A knock on the door. “Oh, you’re already here. Quick service, thanks.” I put the phone down, pleased. At least something works around here.

But when I open the door, it’s the man who ruined my life.

His existence feels like a punch in the guts.

“So you are awake,” he says in this angry tone that he’s never used before because why would he be angry? Why would he be when he’s got my man? “Hope your disappearing act with Spencer did you good.”

He walks into the room, carrying a large, black duffel bag and a tripod. The bag looks heavy, and it lets out a clank when he places it on the floor. Repulsion pools at the pit of my stomach at the sight of him. “The entire crew and band are kind of pissed off at you and Gabe,” he then says, now kneeling by the bag, unzipping it, pulling out wires and cables. There’s a furious urgency to his movements.

“What the hell do you want?”

He looks up, that stupid fucking floppy fringe over his eyes. “What does it look like? I’m interviewing you. And no! No, you don’t tell me that we’re doing this later! I’ve been trying to get you to sit your ass down for weeks, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get this done. I’m so fucking tired of people just thinking that I don’t mind, no, no, Shane won’t fucking mind, Shane has infinite fucking patience.” He places the tripod in the middle of the room. “Now sit down!” he barks and points at the couch.

I’m so surprised that I actually obey.

If he’s here, at least he’s not with Brendon. If he’s yelling at me, he’s clearly not...

I study him more closely as he sets up the video camera.

Taking off seemed like the logical thing to do back in Vegas – I have no collar on me, I’m a freeman. They all think Spencer and I just took off partying, grabbing Gabe along for the ride. But Brendon knows what happened. Now Vicky knows too. And I’ve been thinking that Brendon spent last night making up to Shane in such vivid detail, winning Shane back over one kiss at a time, but Shane’s a fucking mess.

I almost laugh: he’s a fucking mess too. Well done, Bren. Is this what you wanted?

Shane’s been looking more and more exhausted ever since we got on tour, but now he’s starting to resemble a dead man. The dark circles around his eyes make him look older, and his eyes lack that mindless gleam of the earlier days. His hair is dirty and messy, he looks like he’s been wearing the same clothes for two or three days now, and he’s got a fair layer of stubble – the overall scruffy tour look, just magnified. But he’s not smiling. That’s the biggest difference. Because even when he was tired, he’d smile, joke, kid around.

Now he looks furious, sad and devastated.

He leans over the camera, peering into the viewfinder and adjusting what he sees. He grabs a lamp and fiddles with the lights, drawing the curtains, going back to the camera, swearing, sweating, mumbling.

“Right,” he says finally, pressing buttons on the camera until a red light comes on. I flinch, blink, taken aback. He grabs a chair and sits behind the camera, presumably now pleased with the lights and the focus and whatever else. “Okay, Ryan Ross,” he says, digging into the duffel bag and pulling out paper. It looks like scribbled questions. He has pages and pages of them. “So talk to me about this new band. How’s that?” He sounds angry.

“Do we have to do this now?” I ask quietly. “I’ve had a rough night.”

I sound like it, my voice raw. I probably look it: alcohol, coke, self-pity and misery, and now anger, brooding, bitter anger.

“Yes, we do. We really, really do,” he laughs desperately.

The red light remains aimed at me, but I look beyond it, at him. He isn’t here to listen to me open up about the band. He doesn’t care about his documentary right now.

“Switch that thing off,” I tell him. He looks at me with sad, almost fearful eyes.

“What?”

“Switch it off.”

He hesitates, but then reaches over, and the red light dies.

“Spit it out, then.”

He’s confided in me before, so it only makes sense in his head. I don’t care. I won’t sympathise. He looks pale and sick as he slumps in his chair. “I think he’s cheated on me,” he says quietly.

God. Really? You’re only six months late.

“Oh.” A hint of shock and sympathy in my tone. Fucking perfect. I’ll tell him right now: I fucked him. I did it. Me, me, me, me. “He _has_ cheated on you.”

“Well, I have no proof,” he says before I get to the punch line. That’s disappointing. He doesn’t even bother to disguise that this is what he wants to talk about, not me. “But his stories don’t add up. And little things all of a sudden, like sometimes he’s smelled like... someone else. Or times when he disappeared for a night or a day or an afternoon, but I just thought that his explanations made sense, but they don’t. They didn’t. And I don’t know how many men he’s been... But then what if it’s all in my head, but I just – God, I’m going insane!” he laughs like a man who, well, is going insane, which is actually more entertaining.

“You need one,” I say, pointing at the coffee table where the bottles stand in such a pretty, pretty row. He exhales shakily and grabs the bottle nearest to him, uncorks it, but then he shakes his head and puts it down again.

“You think you know someone,” he rants. “You think you really know someone, you know? But then it’s all just _lies_ , and you realise that you don’t even fucking know who you’re sharing your bed with. And he’s sorry, I know, he’s so sorry, but if it makes him feel that bad, why did he lie in the first place? Fuck. I don’t even know his real name. I don’t know if – if Brendon Urie _is_ his real name, because he could’ve gotten that changed, couldn’t he? I don’t know where he’s from. Don’t know where he went to high school. All those things, and the times when he’d shower the second he got home, they all make sense now. That’s pretty bad, right? When you don’t even know who your boyfriend is having sex with, when you don’t even know his fucking _name_.” He’s vomiting it all out, it seems. 

God, it’s a hell of a lot to take.

“You want some grass?” I offer, and as I say it, I –

I should send him away. And I could pretend that that tiny thought did not enter my head, but it did. Would he really?

“No, I'm okay,” he says. Oblivious. Or is he? Why does he keep coming back to me to tell me how messed up his relationship is? I’m not doing anything he doesn’t want.

“’kay,” I say, “well I do.” He follows me to the bedroom where I dig out a lighter and a ready rolled joint from a cigarette pack. I motion for him to sit on the bed, and he does, spilling out his woes.

“He’s not giving me the truth. I fucking know it.” He scoffs bitterly. “He thinks we can just go back to the way we were? He’s wrong. He’s fucking wrong. He either spits it all out, or we’re done. I’m not putting up with that anymore.”

“You shouldn’t put up with it.”

“I know!” he exclaims.

“He’s just stringing you along.”

“God, I know.” He sighs heavily and rubs his face tiredly. “It’s shit when something you were so sure of just... disappears.”

I know exactly what he means. And it’s not Shane that I want to punish. He and I are relatively innocent in all of this. It’s Brendon. His doing. And –

This is the biggest joke of all. This will be funny, something to write home about. This is where I give them all the finger, where I get the last laugh. It almost makes me smile.

I sit next to him, joint between my lips, and I inhale deep, eyes closing. I don’t think of Brendon or what’d this do to him or us because no, no, he murdered us. So let me murder him in turn. Let me kill something that is holy to him. Maybe then we’ll be even. Maybe then it’ll stop hurting.

“You sure?” I offer, breathing out smoke, the air smelling of bitter grass. “Fuck, it’s some strong stuff.”

“Nothing strong enough to fix this,” he says, defeated, but he’s wrong about that: you can blur the world around you with chemicals until you can bear it. I should know.

My hand shakes, although the high is already kicking in. This is good. This is a brilliant idea. I’ll do this one my way.

He fidgets, exhales. He pulls on his collar. I drop the joint onto the carpet, and he stubs it out with his shoe, both of us equally uncaring of the damage.

“So,” I say.

“What?” he asks, looking at me with faux innocence.

“So,” I repeat, meeting his eyes - maybe throwing in a bit of The Look myself. Hey, I had a great teacher. I can imitate. And he gazes at me almost dreamily, eyes dropping to my lips.

So much for their eternal love.

I lean over, pause, and - he closes the gap and kisses me. Something inside me dies at the first contact. Good. He fumbles, his breathing hitches. First Gabe, now him. He exhales shakily and he squeezes my knee. Fumbling, fumbling. “Christ,” he whispers, sounding awed. Breathy. Willing. Of course he’s willing.

It’s disgusting.

I don’t care.

I kiss him back, push my tongue into his mouth and taste his fucking taste, and something about it reminds me of Brendon, like I’ve tasted it on Brendon before, and it sickens me. And he kisses somehow similar to Brendon, like their years together have turned them the same. But he doesn’t kiss like Brendon, it’s not Brendon, and every touch reminds me of it.

And if he had any decency, he’d stop to say ‘I don’t think I can’ or ‘This feels so wrong’. But he doesn’t. He’s into it, so into it, falling onto the bed and me moving on top. The springs of the mattress squeak as we move. He squirms and pants and his hand moves down to feel my ass.

I snatch his wrist and pin his arm above his head. He groans. He likes getting controlled.

“Pants off,” I order.

He blinks. He obeys.

I move off of him, to sit on my knees. He reaches for his fly. Eagerly. Eagerly. Fucking piece of shit, fucking whore, and I unbuckle my belt, unzip myself, shove my pants down and get my cock out because this is something to be quick about.

I’m semi-hard.

Thank god for the pathetic, animalistic reaction of body heat against me.

I stroke myself to encourage the erection, to get myself a bit harder, fast and brutal. He pulls his jeans and underwear down, exposing himself. I don’t want him mostly dressed, however, I want him naked and bare like a slut.

“Take everything off.”

I don’t want this to be like in LA, when the rustle of clothes mixed with sounds Brendon made, those helpless, gorgeous sounds when he kissed me. No, god, I can’t. I can’t.

He undresses fully, ungraceful and hurried, and when he sees me stroking myself, his eyes darken. Slut, slut, slut, slut, slut.

“Are you sure?” I ask as he lies down on the bed, naked. If we keep going, we can never take it back. Is he sure? Am _I_ sure? God, everything is so out of focus with him and me in this room. I want him to shake his head, say no, we got caught up, it was a momentary relapse, god some excuse -

“Yes," he says, “"god, yes. Please.” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me closer. His cheeks are a deep red. His cock is fully erect, he’s harder than me, he’s _hard_ , and he disgusts me.

“Put that fucking mouth of yours to good use,” I tell him, pushing his head down. And he exhales, turned on, and licks his lips. I lean back, sitting on my knees on the bed as he sinks down and takes my cock into his mouth, his greedy hands on my hips. No hesitation, no second guessing. He’s got a way with his tongue and his mouth, and he’s so fucking eager. He gives good head. I stare down at him, watching my cock between his lips. And I feel it, and it feels good, but it’s also detached. This is not me. I am not doing this.

He runs his tongue over my slit, and I jerk and hiss.

I am doing this.

I press my hands into his hair, and he takes in more. He almost gags but manages not to. I wish he had. I wish he’d choke. I pull on his hair – Brendon likes that when he sucks me off – and Shane likes it, too, and I keep him there until my balls ache. I pull him off, an obscene pop sounds in the room. His chin is wet from saliva, and he wipes at his mouth and takes in deep breaths. He looks fucked, and boy, oh boy, is he hard. He’s leaking.

“Hands and knees.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. He’s eyeing my erection hungrily. His cock is as long as mine, and thicker, which is somehow disappointing because most dicks aren’t. Brendon loves it thick, when it really pushes him open.

He gets on his hands and knees. He’s got a plain ass, not full and perfect like Brendon’s, just an ass, and I see his hole, and it sickens me. I spit onto my palm, hastily rubbing it onto his hole once he’s positioned himself. When he’s like this, it’s hard to tell who he is. He could be some guy. Just some guy.

“Don’t you have lube?” he asks, has the sense to ask.

“I do.” But saliva is all we deserve.

I move into position and press the head of my cock against him. I’m not going to prolong this, I’m not going to make sure we’re ready. Anyone can take a cock in the right mindset. And he. “You’ve wanted me to fuck you since day one,” I tell him, and he lets out a moan but that’s not enough. “Haven’t you? Tell me.”

“Yes,” he groans, and yes, yes, there it is, a confession, is someone filming this?

I push into him. A burning pain radiates from my chest, and my guts twist but not because it feels good – it does, though, he is tight around me, but the way in which it doesn’t feel good at all is more obvious, like my heart shatters all over again.

He groans, his back arching. He fists the sheets and groans. I pull out all the way, spit on my hand, rub some more saliva on, and then push in again, and then I fuck him, and he takes it, he groans, he says, “Fuck, more, Ryan, fuck, so good”, because he knows who it is and it’s getting him off, and he’s been thinking about this, whore, whore, whore, has probably been jerking off to this ever since I told him I fuck men. That’s it, I know I’m right. I bet he got so fucking excited that day, didn’t he? All his stupid. Fucking. Dreams. Of. Getting. Fucked. By. Me. Coming. True.

I go in hard because I have no reason not to. Our bodies slam together, and I try to come already, try to get there. Which will be more insulting, coming in him or pulling out to come over him? Making him come but not coming at all, saying he can’t get me off?

But he can.

I called Brendon a slut. It takes one to know one.

Shane’s jerking himself off, and I wish he wasn’t vocal like he is, I wish he was quiet so I didn’t have to hear or know. I breathe hard, try to keep my noises to myself. Brendon’s made me vocal, he’s all about the dirty groans and sultry moans, and once he got me being more vocal, it was hard to stop, even more so when he learned all of my weak spots, how he used those to undo me.

I don’t know what gets Shane off, and he doesn’t know what gets me off, so we don’t try. He focuses on getting fucked, stroking his leaking cock, and I focus on fucking him and getting off. The bed moves, and he’s loud, and I breathe hard, feel sweat on my neck, rolling down, and if this isn’t over soon I’ll scream.

But he comes, then. His groan is deep and masculine, coming deep from his chest, an “Oh yeah, oh fuck, Ryan, fuck me,” and I do. His muscles squeeze around me, and it’s enough. I feel the surge of it, and I bite on my lip not to moan as I pull out, cock in hand, and come on his ass, press the head of my cock to his widened hole and milk it out.

None of it feels good.

Once it’s done, and I’m breathing hard, and I’ve fucked him, there, I’ve fucked him too, and good luck in your fucking relationship when I’ve had you both, and once it’s done –

I stagger out of bed, barely recovered from the orgasm, my fingers covered in come. I stagger across the room and into the bathroom, kicking my pants off as I go. I stagger into the shower and turn it on. A water spray hits me, and only then do I breathe. I wipe my eyes, and I pull at my clothes, and I grab this tiny hotel soap in this fucking wrapper, and I use my teeth to get it out, spit out paper, and then I scrub the soap on me, and I scrub it on my softening dick, and I scrub it against my pubes, and my stomach, and my chest, as my removed clothes are a pile on the bath floor, and I scrub the soap against my tongue and I gag and I spit and I hold back screams and sober up so fucking quickly that it makes my head spin.

I twist the tap until the water stops. I lean against the tiles and breathe.

This is all a big joke.

I grab a hotel towel, press it against my face and try to calm down.

So I fucked Shane. That’s not that bad. That’s not... Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I wrap the towel firmly around my waist as I head back out. Shane’s sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear, just pulling his t-shirt back on.

“How was that, then?” I ask. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he admits, “it was.” But the pleasure is already tainted with shame. He looks around, confused. It was a pretty lousy fuck. I know. I didn’t want it to be good. “Oh _god_ ,” he breathes out. It’s almost panicked as he looks at me, my hair wet, clad in nothing but a towel. “Fuck, what did we do?” He stands up and grabs his jeans, and when I catch a glimpse of his ass, the fabric of his boxers is wet there, a splotch of wet fabric, my come soaked into it.

“Hey, it happens,” I tell him, downplay it. It happens.

“I just cheated on Brendon,” he laughs hysterically, like this didn’t even occur to him while I was in him. “With _you_.”

“Like I said, it happens.”

“I need to...” he says, motioning at the door. He’s panicking. He heads straight to the other room and frantically starts packing up his equipment. I follow, anger spreading in me.

“You can never tell Brendon about what just happened,” I say. “Do you hear me? You can never tell Brendon.”

If Brendon finds out about this, that’s it. He’ll never forgive me. But it’s not about Brendon, it’s about me, and Shane does not get to ruin this for me.

Shane zips up his bag and grabs the tripod, trying to get out as quick as possible.

“Shane, are you listening?!” I bark, following him to the door. A burning ache spreads in my chest, my brilliant idea turning against me so quickly. What did I do? Shit, what did I do?

He opens the door, but I slam it shut. He’s tense, staring ahead of himself, and the guilt is rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought seducing you was such a good idea,” he says, “but I fucked up, I –”

“Listen to me,” I say quietly. “You _never_ tell him about this. It didn’t mean anything. You were upset, and I just happened to be here, alright? You seduced me, sure, you - You slipped once, and Brendon’s fucked around plenty, so that’s okay, right? I'll never tell him, he never has to know. Do you understand?”

He nods after far too long. “Yes.” He looks relieved. “Yes, okay.”

I step back and let him get out.

My insides feel hot, and I press my hand to my mouth, trying not to think of it but my mind is full of memories of fucking him and his sounds and what it felt like.

When I’m sick in the bathroom shortly after, it’s got nothing to do with the drugs like it was by the highway. I didn’t make a mistake; I wanted it. It was all a part of my grand plan. And Shane better keep his mouth shut because this is mine to tell.

I’ll tell Brendon. I’ll tell him. And then he’ll be sorry he ever crossed me.

* * *

Brendon is hard to find before the show. Jon’s not talking to me, so I guess Cassie is finally pleased. Jon will forgive me for acting out again, though, once I tell him why I took off. He gets love, so he’ll understand my dark and ugly love. Maybe. Patrick can’t afford to give me an attitude, so he just smiles nervously.

Brendon is here at the venue, though, one of the roadies told me so.

And I need to have a word with him. I have some interesting news to tell.

So I find him, and I’m so pleased, so, so pleased. He’s in the canteen, in the corner table by himself, staring at a plate with some cold looking mashed potatoes on it. Others have left, and he’s alone. Like he deserves to be. And the last time our eyes met, he left me. A lifetime ago.

See, that was someone else. Some fool who felt his heart swell at the sight of him. Some naïve fool.

Not me.

“Rough day?” I ask, sitting down beside him. He startles, and like yesterday, he has these reddened eyes like he’s been crying – again. What’s that all about? He’s crying so much all of a sudden. He never used to. He was so tough and independent, unreachable. And now he’s soft. He’s gone soft.

“Yeah,” he says, surprising me by not taking off. I thought I’d have to yell it to his back. And his misery affects me none whatsoever, doesn’t make it harder to breathe, doesn’t fill me with concern or regret because I hate seeing him sad. Because it kills me. No, it doesn’t affect me at all. “Is it true that you, Spencer and Gabe drove down here?”

“Yeah, man. Impromptu road trip. Felt like I needed it after you left me.”

He flinches. He doesn’t get to act sorry about it now. He left me, and I’ve since taken control of my life once more.

Fuck everything we ever had.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says, sounding disappointed.

“I know.” Needed to wash away the taste of Shane. Soap didn’t cut it. “You seen Shane lately?”

Because I have.

“He’s avoiding me.”

Because I fucked him.

“God, because the... the funniest thing happened. You’ll love this.” I laugh already, and he looks alarmed. Something about this doesn’t feel good, but it will soon. It will. “See, I’ve kind of been in a bad place since, well, yesterday, and we bought this coke and I just have _not_ been making the best decisions as of late, so –”

“Baby, you need to stop doing this shit to yourself,” he whispers, eyes so sad, and I forget what I meant to say. My thoughts scatter all over, and a familiar tug feels in my chest. Something warm and powerful. No. No, not that. “Ryan,” he says softly. He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together, and I stare at our hands in confusion. “You have to take better care of yourself.”

But why would I care for myself when he doesn’t?

“You don’t get to worry,” I say quietly. One touch, and everything I’m so sure of seems to vanish. One touch, and the scab gets pulled off prematurely, and it’s fresh blood all over again. “You chose Shane, so you don’t –”

“I worry. I don’t... know what I’m doing.” He laughs like that’d be the day. “I don’t know if Shane and I...” Yeah. Yeah, Shane’s not forgiving him, is he? And Brendon’s realising that now. “And then there’s you, and it’s all up in the air. And Shane might. He might leave me, but you won’t, right? You won’t.”

I won’t...? But he. He left me. He said it was over, and now he’s –

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He just said it, but he – he _really_ doesn’t know what he’s doing. At all. Last night it was Shane, today it’s me, and tomorrow it’ll be Shane again. All this time I’ve been looking for an answer, a simple, unifying truth that would explain his actions, why he pulls me in, clings onto me, pushes me back, leaves me, then comes back again.

Something that would explain it.

But there is no answer. There is no end reason.

It’s not me. It’s him.

He has no idea what the hell he’s doing. And that’s even more insulting to what we had, to what we felt.

What good will it do to break his heart?

Will it bring him back to me? Will it fix my own?

Will causing him pain make me feel any better?

He’s still clutching my hand, turned towards me, earnest eyes on me. I can’t look him in the eye. An overwhelming sense of loss hits me. It doesn’t matter what he’d choose in the end now, even if by some miracle it’d be me eventually. I made sure we were over. That he’d never forgive me. It’ll just... be easier like this.

Maybe he won’t understand it now, but one day he’ll see that I was right.

“Can I ask you one thing?” I whisper, and he nods instantly. “Did I... imagine it? Us?” I push away the memories that are too pure to think of right now. “What we felt? Was that just me?”

“Of course it wasn’t.” He’s frowning, looking hurt. “Walking away from you last night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. God, you haven’t imagined us. Back when things were easier, I’d just find myself smiling thinking about you all the time. Butterflies in my stomach,” he says a bit sheepishly. “My heart skips beats. A rush of blood. All those things.”

That’s good. That’s comforting to know at last.

A little too late, not changing anything, but it makes me feel less insane.

“I did something bad,” I say slowly, to bring down the sword that’s hanging above our heads. “I did... something wrong.” I pull my hand from his warm clasp. The skin of my palm feels cold now, without his touch. “I thought it’d make me feel better. It didn’t. I thought that... hurting you would make me feel better. But it won’t.”

He’s staring at me, suddenly pale. “What did you do?”

I look up and, as if by fate, a man walks into the canteen but stops and hovers at the sight of us, of seeing his boyfriend sitting with the man he just got fucked by. Literally and figuratively.

Brendon follows my gaze. Shane looks like the guiltiest man alive. It’s written all over his face, and Brendon looks at me again.

“Ryan.” Voice rougher, more demanding. “What did you do?”

“Only what was expected of me,” I reply and stand up because his tone is urgent, and he knows already. He knows.

When I get closer, Shane says, “Vicky said you’re needed on stage.” He sounds like his tongue is swollen and his throat is closed off, and he stares at Brendon with such an obvious, scared expression that I know it’s a matter of seconds before it’s all publicly known.

Shane doesn’t move as I pass him, like he’s made of stone. He stares at his boyfriend, his boyfriend stares at him. And maybe I should congratulate myself on leaving the two of them to stand in the ruins of their love, but I don’t.

Walking away from him is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Vicky’s by the stage, chewing gum ferociously, and the band is there, too, ready to go on. “Hey, you alright?” she asks, giving me the onceover, and I don’t know if she’s still pissed off about earlier, the coke and Gabe and me being such a prick. She sees something written all over my face, however, because her eyes widen in surprise when she takes me in. “Ryan?” she asks. Gabe’s busy not looking my way, and fuck. Fuck, I fucked it all up again.

Lesson learned: never trust anyone. My old man taught me that at a fucking young age, but I forgot. I just forgot.

Brendon made me forget who I am.

“I want Brendon and Shane out of here.”

The words burn my throat.

She blinks at me and then nods. “Okay.”

“I want them out of here _now_.”

“They’ll be gone by the time you come off stage,” she says, snapping her fingers at a guy who hurries over to wait for a command. “They’re off this tour,” she tells me, and then she quickly mutters something to the guy, something about escorting off the premises, and the guy looks surprised – one of the roadies, whatever his name is – but Vicky stares him down until he realises she’s not kidding.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, looking confused and uncomfortable.

“Take their tour passes,” she says after him, and then she turns to me for validation, if that’s good enough for now. It is for now.

“I don’t want to see them again,” I say, tone almost pleading.

“You’ll never have to. I’ll put them on a plane back home.”

“Vicky, listen. I can’t see him again. I _can’t_.”

Not after what I’ve done. What we’ve both done.

Her hand lands on my arm, and it calms me, steadies me, pushes back the inevitable panic and horror and shock and loss.

“Don’t worry. Brendon’s out of your life. He’s gone.”

And it’s not what I ever wanted, but it’s something that I made happen. Something that, in the end, I needed. Because Brendon wasn’t entirely wrong about one thing: he and I have a knack for destroying each other.

“You need to go on stage,” Vicky says, and I nod, shaking, trembling like a leaf. Okay. I head over towards the blinding, purifying lights, but then stop when it weights me down, tightens around my throat, threatens to cut off my air. My band’s already there, having just walked on to roaring applause.

“Vicky, I need to get this off,” I say, pulling on the chain around my neck, and she hurries over and says, “Okay, okay, let me,” and I shiver as her nimble fingers reach the clasp, and then the simple silver chain is gone. Its familiar weight is no longer there.

I rub my throat and cough and try to breathe. Breathe. He’s gone. Breathe.

She pockets the chain and smoothes my shirt, trying to smile supportively. “There, that any better?”

No.

“He’s gone, right?”

She smiles sympathetically. “Yeah. He’s gone.”

He’s gone.

And so I walk on stage because there is no other place for me to go.

And the cheering doubles, triples as the thousands of fans see me, and I’ve never been so lost in my life. He’s gone. I’ve sent him away, but not before we destroyed each other. Like those smarter than us knew that we would.

The stage lights illuminate me and give me a halo.

And I take my place behind the microphone, where I will stand, where I am doomed to stand and privileged to stand, by myself, always by myself.

Where I am never wrong, where I have never erred, my eyes flying over the rows of lifted arms, euphoric cries, devoted gazes.

Where I am finally loved.

 

 

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End of Volume 2


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